


Field Work

by Cuda (Scylla)



Series: Field Work [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Chaptered, Cows, Dogs, Eighties References, F/F, Family Drama, Horses, Iowa, Just Add Kittens, M/M, Romance, Veterinary Clinic, Wordcount: Over 50.000, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-10-27 22:23:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 60,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10817976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester finally have a good thing going in the Mississippi River valley, caring for a veritable flood of pets and livestock for Charlie Bradbury's rural veterinarian clinic. But as a busy spring calving season drives Dean to the brink of exhaustion, Charlie calls in some unexpected backup... and really, who needs stability anyway?





	1. Chapter 1

The new veterinarian was a _fox_.  
  
Sam Winchester thought; get a grip. The horny beagle in kennel 3 is less obvious. He passed a clipboard across the counter to the new guy. "Just contact info. Name, cell, email; whatever you want on your business cards. Doctor Bradbury said she processed most of your forms last week. She doesn't like to drown new people in paperwork."  
  
The new vet chuckled. "She saves that for later?"  
  
He'd made the new guy laugh. Pleasure played down Sam's spine like a trickle of warm water. By now his smile had to be reaching psychotic proportions. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, once it's too late to run."  
  
The new vet said nothing, expression smoothing as he focused on the clipboard. The pen scratched, loud in the silence.  
  
Sam cleared his throat again. "So, Doctor Bradbury didn't tell us much about you."  
  
The new guy's hand kept moving. "Probably because it's uninteresting. What did she tell you?"  
  
"That you're too good to be working in a country clinic. She doesn't know why you said yes."  
  
"Ah." With a final scan of the sheet, the new vet clicked the pen on the base of the clipboard and handed both back to Sam. "I agreed because she asked."  
  
"That's it? Really?" Sam unclipped the sheet from the board. The new guy watched him do it, with a scrutiny that was a little unnerving. Sam's stomach bobbed.  
  
"That's it. Really," the vet replied. Whose name was, apparently, Castiel.  
  
"Oh. Can I get your last name on this too?" Sam handed the sheet back, "Sorry, Doctor Bradbury didn't give us any information on you beforehand."  
  
A concerned little furrow appeared between Castiel's eyebrows. "Last name?"  
  
"Yeah. I didn't see it on the sheet." Oh god, it was missing, wasn't it? Self doubt crept in, and Sam sneaked another glance at the sheet in Castiel's hands. He breathed out a sigh of relief as he confirmed the blank was still, well, blank. At least he wasn't hallucinating.  
  
Castiel stared down at the sheet in puzzlement. Looked at Sam. Looked at the paper. Sam. Paper.  
  
Not sure what else to do, Sam waited. Everyone had last names. This guy wasn't famous, right? He wasn't, like, the Prince of veterinarians?  
  
Sam glanced up in time to see Castiel's eyes unfocus. Then he was back, with a look of mixed relief and certainty. "I'm sorry, Sam." Quickly, he filled in the blank spot and passed the clipboard back.  
  
The empty spot now said 'Bradbury.' Holy crap. Doctor Bradbury didn't have a brother, did she? Was she married and never told them? No, she couldn't be married to a dude. Well, she could be, if she wanted to, but why would she want to?  
  
With a huff at his own stupidity, Sam sneaked a glance at the new vet's hands. No wedding ring.  
  
"Brother," Castiel supplied, apparently reading Sam's thoughts, "adopted."  
  
Sam's eyes shot back up, to meet Castiel's mild, knowing smile. Guilt stabbed at him. "Sorry, small-town nosiness," he lied. Well, sort of. Maybe small town nosiness was contagious.  
  
"I see."  
  
Was that amusement? Disapproval? Sam couldn't tell. The new vet was more sphinx than fox, he decided, and swallowed his fluttery stomach back down where it belonged.  
  
The office door behind Sam swung open with a soft scuff. Castiel's faint smile drained away, and Sam glanced over his shoulder to see Charlie, tablet in hand, wearing a similar expression.  
  
"Doctor Bradbury," Charlie said gravely. She ducked, her eyes snapping back to Castiel like she was afraid he'd vanished.  
  
"Doctor Bradbury," Castiel replied. He looked stunned.  
  
Charlie practically launched herself over the counter to hug her brother. A moment of panic crossed Castiel's face as her arms folded around his neck.  
  
Castiel's eyes found Sam's. Sam flashed him what he hoped was a supportive grin, and something suspiciously close to pain tightened the new vet's face. His eyes closed, and he buried his face in Charlie's bright red hair.  
  
Feeling intrusive, Sam got back to his paperwork. If he kept sneaking little looks at them and eavesdropping shamelessly, well, they were standing right in front of him.  
  
"Did you just get into town?" Charlie demanded, "You were supposed to call!"  
  
"I'm sorry," Castiel replied, low and contrite, "Construction on I-75. Down to two lanes for almost sixty miles."  
  
Charlie patted his shoulder and withdrew. She pulled a face. "Ugh. Guess I should just be glad you're here in one piece. Cas, you've met Sam Winchester?" She backed up and turned, inviting Sam into their conversation again. Not sure what else to do, Sam smiled.  
  
There was a pause, as Castiel looked at him with something like surprise, then quickly away. "We've met," Castiel said. Sam swallowed a spike of disappointment. He looked - and sounded - flat. Dismissive.  
  
Well, fuck you too, Sam thought, and quickly tamped it down.    
  
Whatever. Fine. He'd drown Castiel in kindness - that'd show the clenched-up asshole. "I'm grateful you're here. Charlie's been worried about how shorthanded we are, since the new fertilizer plant brought so many people into town. And it's April. Which means—"  
  
"Calves," Charlie moaned, "Angus calves. Enormous calves. If I don't get Dean some help, he's going to quit on me. I don't think he's slept since the middle of February."  
  
That was exaggerating, but only a little. Sam knew Dean had been home before Midnight all of one night last week. He'd faceplanted in their takeout tacos. Charlie was wrong about the quitting part, though. Dean wouldn't quit this job if it killed him. And at this rate? It might.  
  
Castiel seemed just as concerned. "I can take tonight's shift," he offered, "your vet should have today off, if he likes. That level of sleep deprivation isn't safe."  
  
Charlie grinned, reaching dangerously high wattage levels. "You're my hero, Cas. Seriously. The Padfoot to my Moony."  
  
The jingling of the front door abruptly ended the conversation, as a timid, worried young woman with a pet carrier ventured inside. Sam recognized her; besides delivering the mail every afternoon, her cats were regular patients. And this was definitely not a routine checkup. "Morning, Katie," he said, "what's going on?"  
  
Katie's eyes were wet and red with fresh tears. "Dizzy," she wailed, and waved towards the cat in her carrier with her free hand, "Our antifreeze containers were leaking. I just caught her licking the puddle!"  
  
Charlie's smile vanished. She hurried to open Exam Room One for Katie. "How long ago is 'just'?"  
  
"Five minutes? I don't know," Katie scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her free hand. "I'm so sorry. We don't ever let her in the garage!"  
  
"How's she acting?" Charlie beckoned Katie inside.  
  
"Okay, I guess? Upset about the trip?" Every sentence became a question. Katie's voice trembled. Charlie closed the exam room door, and their voices muffled.  
  
Silence thinned the air in the room. Itching for something to do, Sam realized Charlie had left her tablet on the counter. He picked it up, logged into the patient database and pulled up Dizzy's records on the screen. Katie Wynnfield had the little longhaired calico cat since kittenhood - and she kept up with Dizzy's care like clockwork. Records from annual checkups spanned back for the last four years. He pulled up her most recent information on the tablet and set it aside to finish checking them in.  
  
Castiel was still at the counter. All the easiness he'd gained in Charlie's company was gone again. He looked stiff. Constipated, Sam thought without mercy, and swallowed a smirk.  
  
"Acidosis," Castiel said in an undertone, "but treated this quickly, the animal may pull through."  
  
"Dizzy," Sam corrected, focusing on his work with a frown, "I hope so. Katie loves her."  
  
"Enough to neglect securing toxic chemicals in the garage," Castiel said.  
  
The dry dismissal shoved Sam past the crumbs of lingering attraction. Rounding the counter, Sam pushed the tablet with Dizzy's records into Castiel's chest. "Charlie needs that," he said, gesturing to the tablet as Castiel's hands wrapped around it, "And you might think about getting to know us before you judge. Excuse me. Rounds." He stepped around Castiel with his jaw clenched, pulled the morning's inpatient roster down from the wall, and stalked off. He was regretting the maneuver in a minute, sure he'd hear about it from Charlie by the end of the day, but it was too late now to spoil his exit.  
  
Sam met his counterpart, Dorothy Baum, in the hallway back to the long-term care unit. She was just unzipping her coat, the cool humidity of the morning still clinging to her. Sam's mood brightened at the sight of her. "Can you cover the desk?" he asked, with a wave of the roster.  
  
Dorothy raised an eyebrow. "Hi to you too, Sam. We have a walk-in already? I saw a couple cars out front."  
  
Sam let his expression do most of the talking. "One, plus the new guy's here." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Katie Wynnfield brought Dizzy in. Antifreeze."  
  
Dorothy must have caught a whiff of his short fuse and didn't press. She hissed through her teeth at the mention of Dizzy. "How long ago?"  
  
Her empathy washed the bitter taste of Castiel out of his mouth. "Just a couple minutes," Sam confirmed.  
  
At that, Dorothy's jaw relaxed. She wedged herself past him in the tiny hallway. "Good to hear," she said, turning back, "I did her last booster shots. Didn't even growl. Um. So. All this," she circled Sam's face with a loose wave of her hand, and gestured to the lobby. "New guy?" she mouthed silently.  
  
Sam rolled his eyes and spread his hands.  
  
Seeing this, Dorothy grimaced; then smirked. Just a hair too knowing for Sam's comfort.  
  
"Hot?" Dorothy mouthed next, prompting a good-natured shove before Sam made his way to the back of the clinic.  
  
There were four patients at the clinic for observation: a newly spayed corgi named Frannie who had a tough time with her anesthesia, a fire-point siamese named May, and May's two newborn kittens. The kittens didn't have official names, but Sam had taken to calling them Pete and Repeat. They were both boys, and looked like tiny identical white rats. Their coloring would show up much later, after their eyes opened.  
  
May was a new mother, kept for the last two nights to treat a postpartum infection. For the moment, the babies occupied a cage in the short term care unit room under a warming lamp, swaddled in a soft nest made of a fleece receiving blanket. Of course, Sam couldn't exactly explain that to May, who was restless and pacing in her small enclosure already. She called for them, the chirps reaching Sam from the hallway. "I know, May, I'm sorry," he apologized, donning a pair of latex gloves before he unlatched her door and retrieved her dishes. She pushed her head against his knuckles, soft purr rumbling inside the small metal space.  
  
He washed and dried May's bowls and refilled them, noting next to her name on the roster how much she'd eaten overnight. Her eyes were clear, and other than the obvious worry about her kittens, she seemed healthy. When he returned to the cage, May's pink leather nose poked through the thin bars. She pressed her body against the door and purred for him again.  
  
"Don't bother flirting," Sam laughed, relieved to see her so enthusiastic, "you only want me for my kibble." He deposited the filled bowls at the back of May's cage, scrubbing her neck lightly with his fingers as she turned to eat. It was a nice change from yesterday. Even weak and tired, she'd cried with a determination and volume that didn't match her bird-boned body. Damned near unlatched her cage, too, going for those kittens.  
  
He had more mouths to feed and things to do this morning, but Sam lingered anyway. He stroked May's back, still marveling at how tiny she was. Hunched over her bowl, she could almost fit in one hand. "How are you?" Sam asked her. She purred between bites. "That good, huh? Maybe Charlie will let you and the boys go home today. Keep your paws crossed."  
  
He changed gloves and moved on to feed Frannie, the newly spayed corgi. She was awake; a soft, beseeching whine whistling in her throat through the kennel door. She roved back and forth in front of the gate, brown calf eyes fixed on him.  
  
Sam shook his head as he retrieved her bowl. "Don't they feed you around here?"  
  
Frannie replied with an impatient yip. The service fell below her standards.  
  
The back door slammed as Sam crouched to replace Frannie's bowl. A moment later, Dean's familiar footsteps scuffed on the concrete floor behind him. Sam dropped to one knee and turned with a sympathetic smile. "You were out cold on the couch when I got up this morning. How many?"  
  
Dean stood over him, wearing a tired frown. "Six - and only two in one pasture. These cows are working against me."  
  
"Did they all make it?"  
  
Ambling over to Frannie's kennel, Dean propped a hand on Sam's shoulder and bent to rub the white diamond between the corgi's ears. "Nope," he said, blew out a breath, and changed the subject. "How's she doing?"  
  
"She didn't pull out her stitches. Probably gonna go home today." Sam scratched Frannie's shoulders, "I'll call Amanda this morning, as soon as Charlie gives her the okay."  
  
Frannie recognized her human's name. She lost interest in her food and looked up at Sam, tongue lolling, stump of her tail wriggling with frantic hope.  
  
Dean pulled back with a laugh. "Where's Charlie?" he asked.  
  
Sam stood up. "Exam Room One. Katie Wynnfield's cat drank antifreeze."  
  
Dean whistled. "She got it under control?"  
  
"Far as I know. If you wanna meet the new guy, he's here too. Might still be out front."  
  
To Sam's surprise, Dean went tense. "Right," he muttered, "the new guy. Forgot he was coming today."  
  
Sam skirted Dean and stripped off his gloves. He bent to scrub his hands in the dump sink near the back door. A pair of small feeder bottles waited there with a can of kitten formula. Until it was safe for them to nurse, Pete and Repeat needed to be fed by hand. Every two hours. Including at night. They'd been Dorothy's roommates last night; if they didn't get to go home today, they'd be his tonight.  
  
"You know him, Dean?" Sam asked, "it's Charlie's brother. How did I not know she has a brother?"  
  
"Because he pretends she doesn't."  
  
"What?"  
  
Dean didn't reply right away. Instead, Sam heard the sound of Frannie's kennel door creak open again. He pulled a fresh pair of nitrile gloves from the box on the wall and turned back.  
  
Dean knelt on the balls of his feet in front of Frannie. The little dog rested her chin on his knee, stumpy tail wriggling furiously. "Yeah," Dean said, neutral, "I met him a few times." He buried his hands in Frannie's ruff, massaging behind her ears. "Can't believe he's here. Figured he was gonna start up a Royal Pains vet practice in Cozumel or something."  
  
Sam's brows shot up. "Okay, that's… weirdly specific."  
  
With a soft, snorted laugh, Dean gave Frannie's forehead a last scratch, and got to his feet. "I guess it was," he said in the same flat voice, and shut the kennel door with a snap. "Look, that guy's bad news. Tread with caution, all I'm saying. He'll be gone in a couple weeks, tops."  
  
Strong opinions were the norm for Dean Winchester, though the delivery was a little out of character. Dean always had an opinion on people, good or bad ('bad' was usually reserved for people who liked Sam more than Dean). He had an endless list of expectations to fail, but he also wasn't a bad judge of intention. That was fine in most circumstances - Sam usually agreed, if grudging.  
  
But as much as Sam wanted to commiserate, he'd already gotten in the new vet's face like, ten minutes after meeting him. This topic was political quicksand.  
  
"Seriously, you're preaching to the choir," Sam laughed, trying to be as obtuse as possible, and turned back to the sink where the kitten milk waited. He popped the tab on the small cannister and let the thick liquid trickle into the first feeder bottle. "I met him. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about."  
  
Sam was aware of a third presence in the room. He turned, to find Castiel looking at them both, expression like a closed door.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
Thinking quickly, Sam shoved one of the feeder bottles into Dean's hands, and reached for the other. "Hey, Doctor Bradbury," he said weakly, "have you heard anything from Charlie? About Dizzy?"  
  
Castiel's eyes flicked to his. "No," he said, "I elected to explore the clinic. I apologize, if I'm interrupting. Dean," Castiel added, and gave the elder Winchester a taut nod.  
  
"Cas," Dean said, lifting his chin a fraction. And that was it. No surprise, no smiles. Sam could almost hear them priming their shotguns.  
  
When Dean left it there, Castiel's attention shifted back to Sam. His smile was arch. "We'll be working together closely, Sam. There's no need for formality. Call me Cas, please. As your brother does."  
  
Castiel's eyes were very, very blue. Deep blue. Stupid blue. Somewhere between guilt and panic, Sam felt like a buck staring down the grille of an oncoming semi.  
  
"Sure. That, uh, that's fine." He swallowed, pulse jumping like it wanted to burst, Aliens-style, right out of his neck. Angry at himself, Sam shoved the door open to the short term care unit. "Let me know if you need any help, Cas" he finished, poking his head around the door frame, smiled, and glared at Dean until he followed.  
  
A storm was coming. Sam could feel the charge in the air around Dean. At least he waited until the door swung shut before he whipped around and pinned Sam in place with a glare. "Dude. No."  
  
Sam rolled his eyes as he reached into the warming box for a kitten. "Really?" He pushed the kitten at Dean like an accusation.  
  
"Sammy, you are better than this guy. Trust me." Dean turned his attention to the kitten in his hands.  
  
Pete (or it could have been Repeat, honestly) didn't appreciate being picked up, but he liked the bottle Sam offered him. The kitten hesitated yesterday. Today, he had the routine down to a science. Sam cradled him against his chest with one hand, Pete's needle claws poking through his shirt. "I met him half an hour ago, Dean. And somehow, he's even more of a jerk than you are. I didn't even know that was statistically possible."  
  
"So you turning into a schoolgirl the minute he flashed those baby blues at you was just a coincidence. Right."  
  
"That was because I thought he'd just caught me calling him a dick; after I called him a dick ten minutes ago to his face."  
  
Dean's eyes widened. "You did what?"  
  
"And seriously? I'm not sixteen. You're not Dad. Even assuming I was interested, what're you going to do, sit up with the shotgun all night? Like you did with Ray Vaughn?"  
  
Dean thrust out his chin. The attitude didn't quite work with a squirming kitten tucked against his neck. "Don't tempt me. Vaughn was a douche."  
  
Sam groaned. "He was hot and he had a Harley, all right? I knew he was a douche. I wasn't looking for marriage material."  
  
"Oh, and what? Cas Bradbury does look like marriage material?"  
  
Which meant Cas Bradbury was into guys, or Dean would have led with that. Appalled at his own brain, Sam wasn't sure what he wanted to punch more, his brother or his sadly neglected libido. "Say that louder, Jesus, Dean."  
  
Dean rolled his eyes, thirty-three and going on thirteen. "Whatever."  
  
The kittens finished their bottles and went back to sleep with full, round stomachs. Tension crept up into Sam's neck as he rinsed the bottles, waiting for the second charge. "Are we done talking about this now?" he asked, when he couldn't take it anymore.  
  
Dean shrugged and pulled off his gloves with a snap. "I don't know, are we, Sam?"  
  
Which was a total Dad move. Conditioned by years of sharing the cab of the Impala with his family; however, Sam knew how to deal with a Dad move. He took cover behind silence like a sand berm in a shootout. Dean let himself out with a frustrated flap of his hands. When he was gone, the tension slumped out of Sam. He peeled off his gloves and went back to his chores.  
  
Like the pressure before a thunderstorm, Sam could feel the trouble coming. Whatever was up between Dean and Castiel, he wasn't sure he wanted to know, and wasn't sure he could afford not to.  
  
May smelled the kittens on him as he passed her cage. She reached out to him, paws curling around the bars of her door. Taking pity, Sam went to her and scuffed her soft ears.  
  
"It's too early for this, isn't it?" Sam said to May, "I know. Be glad you don't remember your family." May purred and searched his chest with her nose, inhaling every atom of scent there. To the contrary, family preoccupied her whole world right now. Her tongue darted out, rasping Sam's fingers.  
  
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Sam slipped into automatic, the routine soothing away the morning's drama. By lunchtime, he was in a mellow mood. So were the kittens, who'd been reunited with May after Charlie's decree. Frannie was going home at two o'clock, but by noon she already had several neighbors.  
  
Dizzy, the cat from the morning, lay in the folds of a pink blanket. Her calico flank rose and fell with sedated slowness. An IV drip had been taped to her foreleg. Charlie thought she'd pull through, but antifreeze poisoning was a tricky thing to treat. Likely she'd be there a while.  
  
Stitched up and groggy, two neutered year-old kittens - and the now significantly less horny beagle in kennel three - waited for their humans. Funny, Sam thought; he used to call them 'owners.'  
  
Then he'd moved here.  
  
He'd given kittens their first shots; soothed dogs with beestung mouths; treated rabbits for fleas. Their humans held them and soothed them and asked a hundred questions while they watched Sam take routine vitals. People fussed over pregnant donkeys; carried hit-and-run strays in from the highway; knew the name and personality of every cow and sheep and goat in their pasture.  
  
Almost as frequently as Sam could help, there seemed to be nothing he could do. From cats with inoperable sinus tumors to aging parakeets with heart failure, Sam witnessed heartbreak on a weekly basis. In the case of the parakeet, she lived just long enough for Charlie to walk into the exam room. Her human cried over her, one hand in Charlie's, one finger stroking the parakeet's soft white head.  
  
"My dad loved her," the woman sobbed, "she was an asshole but my dad loved her and I loved her. They're both gone. What am I gonna do now?"  
  
Date Charlie for two weeks and move to Oregon, apparently, Sam thought. He pushed a broom around the lobby; checked expiration dates on boxes of 'vet-approved' treats for sale. Humans were humans, he thought; and sometimes as much in need of care as the pets they brought in. That part of the job mitigated spending three quarters of his work week spattered with vomit or shit.  
  
Castiel appeared in the quiet room while Sam wasn't looking. The sight of him in Sam's periphery made him jump.  
  
"Hello again, Sam," Castiel said. Dean's caution still turning over fresh in his thoughts, Sam dredged up a smile. It went to waste - Castiel's head was bowed over a tablet, and he hadn't noticed. Sam wanted to groan.  
  
He ordered himself to breathe before he let out a word. "Hey, Cas," Sam said, rearranging a row of canned dog food, "we keep running into each other today."  
  
"It's a small clinic. I suppose it's unavoidable."  
  
"Yeah. How's your first day? Ready to run screaming yet?"  
  
Castiel's soft laugh filled the space. "A little spiky this morning. But I try to wait at least a week before I buy the bus ticket for Cleveland."  
  
"Really? That's nice of you," Sam laughed, around an embarrassed flush, "and by nice, I mean optimistic."  
  
"You keep implying that I'm going to leave," Castiel replied. Sam's head shot up, and at his guilty glance, Castiel tipped his head. "Is this office that terrible?"  
  
Oops. Sam's shoulders clenched right back up. Remember, this is Charlie's brother, he thought. Don't say anything incriminating. "Sorry. This place? It's great. We're also the only game in town."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"More like, only game in the county," Sam amended with a sheepish smile, "it's nonstop. Humor's a defense mechanism, sorry."  
  
"You said that once," Castiel said quietly, coming closer.  
  
"Said what?"  
  
"An apology."  
  
Sam wondered if this was how deer felt in shotgun season. There was his heart again, pounding harder just from Castiel's intense focus, until it felt like his whole body vibrated to the beats. "Did I? Uh. So, Cleveland? Is that where you're from?"  
  
Castiel's eyes flicked up, vague mistrust there to read. "Florida. Not far from Orlando," he added.  
  
Sam scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Really? You're a large animal vet though, right? Lots of cows and quarter horses in Orlando?"  
  
Castiel's chuckle was soft, more breath than sound, but it smoothed out between them. His smile was faint, eyes lowered. "Among other things. You should visit. There's a dinner theater there, with a medieval-themed tournament. I was their staff veterinarian."  
  
Sam blinked. "Really? Medieval Times?" In an instant, Sam caught an image of Castiel in steel plate armor, with a dark horse beside him draped in blue—  
  
What the hell, brain. Sam reminded himself that he didn't like this guy. Fantasizing about a guy he didn't like was just plain inappropriate. Not that this was fantasizing. Because it wasn't.  
  
"You've been there, then," Castiel cast him a genuinely interested look for the first time since they'd met.  
  
Too eager to shove off his intrusive thoughts, Sam tripped over himself. "Yeah! I mean, no. Not that one. Chicago."  
  
"Ah." Castiel paused, and rolled the conversation back a chapter. "Quite a number of boarding stables in the area as well," he said with a nod, "most without a medical team of their own. I'm accustomed to, as you say, 'nonstop.' This is pastoral, by comparison."  
  
"Charlie and Dean have a good thing here," Sam volunteered loyally.  
  
Castiel laid the tablet on the reception counter. "Charlie's done well for herself." He smiled, eyes down again. Sam caught himself smiling too, charmed for a split second before his brain caught up, and let out a huff.  
  
All right, fine. Maybe Dean's worry about Castiel was more aphrodisiac than alarm bells. Yeah, big surprise there. But who was Castiel, really? The new vet walked around with a full-on force field humming. Sam could fantasize all day about Castiel dressed up as Sir Galahad, but the fact that Castiel didn't seem to like or trust anybody really made the metaphorical shining armor a tough fit.  
  
And he sure wasn't thinking about the armor again.  
  
Nope.  
  
The front door jingled. Sam retreated behind the counter, passing Castiel on the way. "Hi," he began automatically, "can I help—"  
  
A small pet carrier clattered onto the counter. Sam found himself staring into the flat, angry face of an enormous ginger tabby.  
  
She hissed at him.  
  
"We're here for her shots," her human explained, with a cattleman's gruff swagger. He was well into his fifties, in a blue chambray work shirt and a ball cap emblazoned with a seed corn company logo. "Appointment at one. Jeff Mason. Pumpkin." He patted the carrier to indicate the tabby, who was currently on the high note of a warning growl.  
  
Sam looked to where Castiel had been, to find an empty space.  
  
Ignoring the uninvited sink of disappointment, Sam got back to work. He checked Pumpkin in, then watched Mr. Mason struggle to find a comfortable position in the row of small plastic chairs. Like Pumpkin, he seemed too big for his box. Dorothy came out of Exam Room 2 and ushered man and cat into the small space.  
  
The door closed on Pumpkin's wet, furious hiss. Sam kissed three fingers and held them out to the door in a District Twelve salute.  
  
The afternoon passed much as the morning had, in a round of appointments and no more emergencies. Three booster shots, one cyst, two neutering consults. Sam and Dorothy traded off, but by the time the doors were locked for another night, Sam was beat.  
  
He hadn't seen Dean since this morning. That wasn't really news; not for the past three weeks anyway. It seemed like every pregnant cow in the county was due in April this year. Likely Dean checked in and launched right back out into the field, with supplies and a thermos of coffee.  
  
On the way to his pickup, Sam dialed Dean's cell phone. It rang six times and rolled over to voicemail, which probably meant it was rattling around on Dean's front seat.  
  
Sam swung up into the cab of his truck. "Dean Winchester's phone; you know the drill," the phone said, and beeped. Sam rolled the window down and leaned on the sill.  
  
"Hey Dean? Sam." He squinted at the dash clock, "It's about seven on Monday. Wanna go for—"  
  
A heavy silhouette blocked the sunset at Sam's door. He looked down to see Dean, grinning up at him.  
  
"Tacos?" Dean finished, "Hell. Yes."  
  
He bounced into the passenger seat, slinging his bag onto the footwell. Tires crunched over the gravel drive, giving way to blacktop as Sam pulled onto the main highway. It was a thirty minute drive for tacos - or anything, really, that couldn't be bought at a gas station convenience store or a bar. Lomax was a bedroom town, populated primarily by blue-collar grunts, humping manufacturing jobs somewhere else. They welded windmill blades, bent hydraulic tubes, built satellite dishes and backhoes in other towns around the river valley.  
  
"So do you get tonight off or something?" Sam asked. He sneaked a glance at Dean as they turned. The sun was low, underlining Dean's exhaustion in oranges and reds.  
  
Dean nodded. "Doctor's orders," he said with a chuckle, "Tonight's officially Cas's first shift."  
  
"Right after he got here?" Sam grimaced.  
  
"He's on call, at the office right now." Dean replied with a shrug. "Unless Dave's herd decides to drop every calf tonight, he'll have plenty of time to sleep." Dave Anderson's heifers were huge, muscled Charolais. The calves seemed almost supernaturally assured to cause problems. Dave also tended to breed late, though, which hopefully meant his heifers wouldn't calve until mid-May.  
  
Dave didn't like pulling calves in the snow. Sam saw the logic there, though the tradeoff often meant thick clay mud and mosquitoes.  
  
Dean stretched, rolled down his window, and let his hand teeter in the wind. "He was putting all the addresses on the watch list into his phone, when I left," he shouted over the wind. His hand closed on the edge of the roof, and his head dropped against his forearm. "God I need a nap."  
  
Sam frowned. "Wanna head home?" Fast food didn't exist in their town - the closest Taco John's was across the Mississippi River in the next state. Dean reared back, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.  
  
"Nah," Dean said, "Just ready for a good night's sleep, for once. Maybe a brewski." He smiled. "Maybe a couple."  
  
"It's Monday."  
  
"Your point?" Dean cocked an eyebrow at Sam, who waved a defensive hand at him.  
  
Quiet slipped between them, familiar and comfortable, filled by the rush of wind and road noise. A wall of stormclouds cut across the dusk, and a wet, rain-scented wind blew in Sam's window. He snapped on the radio. Dean punched the '3' on Sam's station buttons, and _Aerosmith_ choked out the NPR broadcaster mid-sentence.  
  
"Hey!" Sam laughed, "I was looking for the forecast! Besides, driver picks the music!"  
  
"I'm invoking the older brother clause," Dean retorted, "and the exhaustion clause."  
  
"I don't remember either of those."  
  
"Sammy, I love you, I accept you," Dean's eyes rolled to him, "but if I have to listen to _Ask Me Whatever_ right now, I swear to God I am gonna fall into a coma and you will have to carry me out of this truck. Is that what you want?"  
  
"It's called _Ask Me Another_ , and it's not boring to smart people," Sam retorted with a lofty smirk.  
  
"Really? Then what are you doing listening to it?"  
  
"Jerk."  
  
"Bitch."  
  
Shaking his head with a helpless grin, Sam conceded for the greater good. Classic rock filled in the chinks of the conversation for the rest of the trip, leaving him plenty of space to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never listened to NPR's _[Ask Me Another](http://www.npr.org/programs/ask-me-another/)_ , I heartily recommend.


	2. Chapter 2

The threatening squall rolled over Sam's hood several miles outside of town. Gusts of windblown rain battered the pickup, as a tornado watch and flash flood warnings broke into Dean's chosen radio station. Both brothers shrugged at the situation. Too late to turn for home; may as well get tacos.

They jogged across the Taco John's parking lot, soaked in moments and squinting against the rain. The air conditioning met them at the door with a frigid blast.

The restaurant was mostly empty, Monday night dinner crowd already come and gone. Dean handed Sam a five dollar bill and claimed a booth that looked out to the street.

Sam loitered around the counter until their order arrived, spinning words together while he waited for a conversation he was already expecting to regret. "So, this thing with Cas being 'bad news,'" Sam said as he slid into the booth, "Look, it's fine - you don't have to explain. But we're all working together." He pushed a cup of extra-hot salsa to Dean as a peace offering.

Lightning flashed outside, thunder cracking a second or two later. Dean stoppered his mouth with a taco, crunching viciously. He stared Sam down until he swallowed. "Which means what? You want the dirty details?"

Sam put down the burrito he'd been unwrapping. He leaned forward. "No. Your business, I respect that. What I want is a drama-free job."

Dean shrugged. "Okay. How's that my problem?"

Thunder boomed again. With a sigh, Sam turned his attention back to his burrito. He unfolded it, pouring a thread of thin red sauce along the filling. "You know how."

Dean squinted at him through another bite, like he was trying to read Sam's soul - or judge his intentions by sight. Going to have to work a little harder than that dude, Sam thought wryly. Anybody raised by a dad like theirs learned to hide their shit early.

Dean rolled his eyes, dusted his hands, and leaned forward. "Okay, you got me. The guy makes my skin crawl. He went to school with Charlie, and me. Stuff happened."

Sam blinked. "What stuff?"

" _Stuff._ "

"You slept together?"

Dean shot him a glare. "Really?"

"What? You're being vague on purpose."

"Which means he ditched me at the prom?"

Sam reached for his coffee. "You said it, I didn't."

Dean munched his way through a second taco, eyes to the storm outside. Sam didn't press the topic further. Their order came with a mammoth cardboard tub of crispy-fried potato rounds, and he tugged them closer, drowning his annoyance in grease and salt.

Across the table, Dean sighed. "No, we didn't fuck. We were friends, end of story. I thought he was okay," he said, "at first anyway. I mean, he's Charlie's bro, right?"

"But?" Sam pressed.

Dean unwrapped a third taco from the stack, liberally slathering it with sauce. "But. He changed. Big time." There was a long pause while Dean stared at the taco in his hands. "Not for the better," he added, and left it there.

Sam watched Dean a minute longer, measuring words against purpose. "He changed while you were in school. So what? People do stupid shit in school. He's here now."

"Yeah. Which makes me wonder what he wants."

Sam shoved a hand through his hair. He picked up what was left of his burrito. "Not much, apparently," he said thoughtfully, "he quit his job in Florida and moved here."

"Florida? Figured it'd be something like that." Dean's laugh was ugly. "Nobody ever does anything for nothing, Sammy."

Sam snorted. "If it was you and me, instead of Charlie and Cas, and I lived a thousand miles north and needed your help, you'd ask about the benefits package?"

"If you were gonna be this judge-y, hell yes!"

Rain clattered against the window in handfuls. Sam rolled his eyes and confiscated the bucket of potato rounds. He tried not to sulk - unproductive, for one thing - but wasn't above deprivation torture. Dean watched the potatoes go, round-mouthed with outrage.

"I bought those!"

"We split it."

"Which means half of those potatoes are mine!"

Sam raised his eyebrows, and continued to hold the bucket hostage.

"Okay," Dean said defensively, "So maybe he IS staying here to help out his sister. He's still a douche."

Sam put the Potato Ole's back on the table and held up his hands. "I'm not saying you need to bury the hatchet. But we've got to work with him - and I've got to work with you when he's in the same room."

Dean tugged the vat of potatoes to his side of the table, maybe in case Sam had plans to poach it again. "What do you want, Sam? Wait. Here." He held up a potato round like a copy of the Bible and covered his heart with the other hand. "I promise not to give our new resident douche a hard time. Unless he's an asshole first, in which case—"

Dean's cell phone went off, blasting Boston's "Renegade" across the busy restaurant. He flipped it over and groaned all over again.

Even upside down, Sam could read the caller ID. "Who's 'Fuckhat McDouche?'"

"Cas," Dean supplied shortly.

Castiel Bradbury. And Castiel was on duty, which meant calls were strictly emergency only. Dean swept the 'answer' button with a reluctant thumb. "Yeah?"

Dean's volume was up, enough that Sam could clearly hear Castiel's distress.

_"Dean?"_

"Yeah. What's up?"

_"I'm lost,"_ Castiel said, and the tightness of frustration translated through the spotty reception, _"I need help."_

"GPS not working?" Dean grinned across the table at Sam, who didn't share the joke.

_"The signal is so poor here, it's a miracle I could reach you. I didn't want to call you. Charlie insisted. She said Sam's pickup is equipped with a winch."_

Dean's brows hiked. "You stuck?" He glanced up at Sam, "What was the last street sign you remember?"

_"Grange Road, I think. I tried to turn around, when my car became entrenched at the foot of an intersecting road."_

"What's the intersection?" Dean hooked a thumb over his shoulder towards the door. Sam hurried to follow, collecting the detritus of their dinner.

* * *

 

Two hours later, slathered in mud, Sam slumped against the bumper of his pickup. It took the three of them plus Charlie and the dairy farmer at the top of the hill to tow Castiel's Prius out of the mud. At this point, Sam figured he'd have to hose out the inside of his truck, too. Every single bit of it was soaked, and that wasn't even accounting for the muddy ride home.

The downpour pushed Sam's hair into his eyes. He tipped his face up into the rain and shoved the stragglers out of his face, wincing as wet tangles yanked and grit scratched his scalp. Ugh. Forget his upholstery, he was the one in need of a power wash.

Castiel stooped out of the rain, cutting through the beams of Sam's headlights. One whole side of his face was gray with mud, plastered from the gouts of watery goo flung by the Prius's wheels. He stopped right in front of Sam, dark as a shadow in the April night, water glistening on his cheek from the high beams.

"Thank you," Castiel said, over the hammering rain, "I'm grateful that you came."

"Glad we could help!" Sam replied, rain and mud occupying his thoughts a little less, "but you need a different car. The winters are nastier than the spring. If—" he amended hastily, "—if you're staying."

Castiel cocked his head. "What would you recommend?"

As Sam opened his mouth to answer, Dean slapped the hood of the truck. The noise and vibration rattled Sam's teeth.

"Cas, you good?" Dean shouted from the passenger side.

"Yes, thank you!" Castiel shouted back. He didn't have the voice for it, Sam thought. That sounded like it hurt.

"Awesome. Saddle up, Sammy, let's go!" Dean pulled open the passenger door.

Sam felt the brief wash of pleasure dissolve in the rain. "Pickup," Sam said, swatting Castiel's wet shoulder as he turned. "Or Jeep. Anything with four-wheel drive." In the chilly night wind, Castiel's body heat seemed feverish. Sam could feel it burn his skin as he turned towards the truck.

"I'll consider that," Castiel called after him.

The storm picked up as Sam and Dean turned for home. Wind shoved at the truck, the young thunder of rain hammering the roof.

The memory of Castiel's warm, wet shoulder clung to the palm of Sam's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Taco John's Potato Ole's](https://www.tacojohns.com/menu/potato-oles/?menu=sides) are salty rounds of carbohydrate-loaded fast food deliciousness. I find excuses to buy them more often than I want to admit. Nobody can blame Dean for wanting his fair share.


	3. Chapter 3

Charlie presented them all with boxes of Girl Scout cookies, the following day.

"Think of it as a carb-filled symbol of my gratitude," Charlie explained, plopping a box of Cranberry Citrus Crisps on the counter next to Sam's keyboard, "I picked the healthy ones for you, even. Well, yeah - for a cookie. Let's not get crazy here."

"You didn't need to do that," Sam protested with a laugh. He wasn't the Girl Scout cookie type. Okay sure, maybe the Samoas when he was really, _really_ hammered but—

"No way." Charlie was adamant. "You rescued my big brother. For that, you deserve cookies. And also a Due South marathon. And pizza."

"You know there are easier ways to get me to watch TV with you," Sam donned a patently innocent smile, "I'll even go first. Here," he pressed his hand to his heart, "Charlie, would you like to watch a late-Nineties police procedural with me? It's great; there's a gay Mountie."

Charlie looked affronted. "Bi Mountie. Fraser is bi, _at least_. Don't erase my favorite Canadian's identity, Sam."

"Okay, my bad, so there's a bi Mountie. And a sentient half-wolf played by a husky."

"Sounds tempting. Will there be pizza?"

"Whatever you want."

"I'm there."

Sam leaned away from the counter with a triumphant grin. "See," he said, rolling up his shirtsleeves, "and I didn't even have to bribe you."

He handed Charlie one of the office tablets across the counter. She took it with a sigh. "Shut up and let me kill my guilt, all right? Pick the day."

Clipped footsteps interrupted them, as Dorothy hurried into the lobby. "Day for what?" she asked, twisting her long hair up into a bun as she walked.

"Netflix marathon," Sam supplied.

Charlie shot him an offended glare. "As if! Neflix doesn’t have it. And my DVDs have extras out the ying-yang."

"You don’t have _Due South_ on Blue-ray?" Sam asked with as much incredulity as he could muster without coffee.

"' _Due South'_?" Dorothy echoed timidly, reaching for the push broom in the lobby closet, "that’s the one with the repressed bi Mountie, right?"

In response, Charlie snagged Sam’s box of Girl Scout cookies and held them out. "You are officially awesome."

"I thought those were mine?" Sam laughed.

"You're getting pizza, shush," Charlie retorted.

Understandably wary, Dorothy took the package of Cranberry-Citrus Crisps like they might burn her fingers. "Um. Thanks?"

Charlie closed her eyes with a shrug and a beatific smile. "Now I've got some calls to make. Doctor McDreamy at the Fifth Street Animal Clinic returned my voicemail with some ideas about Dizzy."

"McDreamy?" Sam echoed.

Charlie peeped around her office door. "Have you _seen_ her?" She asked, and vanished, taking her tablet and the morning's log of appointments with her. When she was gone, Dorothy laid the box of cookies on the counter in front of Sam and shot him a sheepish, hopeful grin. She rubbed the back of her neck.

Sam couldn't decide whether to offer caution or encouragement. Given that about three feet separated them from Charlie's office, he did neither. Instead, Sam reached across the counter, offering Dorothy his loose fist.

Dorothy's smile broadened, cheeks flushing right up to her ears. She bumped her knuckles against Sam's, and nudged the box of Girl Scout cookies towards him. Sam shook his head. He pointed to the hallway across the lobby, back the way Dorothy came. She quirked an eyebrow at him, smiled, and led the way to the kennels in the back.

She surprised him, holding in the worst of the shit-eating grins until she was safely hidden behind the supply shelves.

"You think?" Dorothy burst out. Her glow of pleasure discouraged Sam's sarcasm. A little.

"So, Girl Scout cookies are lesbian code for "I want to bang you"?" he teased.

Dorothy smirked. "Just the cranberry ones."

"So, do I even wanna know what Samoas mean?"

"Coconut rings dipped in fudge? Guess."

Sam leaned against the edge of a filing cabinet and groaned. "If it's the cranberry ones, just so you know, she gave them to me first."

A key in the back door slammed the discussion to a stop before Dorothy could answer. Sam peeked through the shelves to see Dean, just letting himself in. He looked much fresher than he had in the past couple weeks. Amazing what a normal work schedule could do for a person in forty-eight hours or less. Sam came around the shelves to get a closer look.

"Mornin', Sammy," Dean drawled with a wave and a smile. Both of those were rare as baby unicorns on Sam's big brother, even with a full night's sleep and a thermos of coffee. "Already got company?" he added, thumbing in the parking lot's general direction.

Sam schooled the traces of guilt from his expression and nodded. "Couple of morning consults. Want me to pull up your schedule?"

Dean unscrewed the cap of the thermos he carried. "Nah," he said, taking a swig, swallowing hard around the heat. "I got it. You heard from Cas this morning?"

He looked positively gleeful. Sam's internal radar flashed a warning. "No, figure he'll be hitting the sack. Why?"

"Because apparently Dave Anderson's Charolais did start calving last night." Dean took another swallow of coffee. "Yeah, more like three this morning."

"Did he check in?" Sam asked, good mood cooling.

"About ten minutes ago," Dean replied, "I'm headed out there now."

Dorothy came around the corner to join Sam, looking chagrined. "You've got an appointment at nine," she said to Dean. To Sam's relief, she had a jug of cat chow in her arms as an alibi. "Want me to reschedule?"

Dean rolled his shoulder, readjusting the satchel hanging next to his hip. "Yeah. Great, Dot. When's my next after that?"

"Eleven," Dorothy replied.

Dean nodded to himself. "All right. Charlie in?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, "just now - Fifth Street Clinic called her back about Dizzy."

"Doctor McDreamy?" Dean asked.

Sam blinked. "You too?"

"Have you _seen_ her?" Dean asked. He headed down the hallway to the lobby and Charlie's office, leaving Sam and Dorothy alone once again. They looked at one another. The thought of the new vet working all night guilted them back to their battle stations.

"I'll open," Sam volunteered, "unless you want."

Dorothy handed off the jug of cat chow with a grin. "I want. There could be more cookies."

Sam pulled a face. "Good luck with that." He moved aside to let her into the hall, adding, "Two appointments waiting outside. Sheba's back."

"Again?" Dorothy called over her shoulder. Sheba was a Persian cat with fur mats of epic proportions. "We should just shear her. Like a sheep."

"I'm sure Sheba will be _thrilled_ with that idea," Sam replied, and figured that since he was back here, he might as well unpack the cartons of flea meds.

Dean breezed through again. He'd poached Dorothy's ill-gotten Girl Scout cookies and crunched past in a happy carbohydrate fog.

Sam opened his pocket knife and slit a carton of Advantage. "Going to rescue Cas?" He asked.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, right. Try, 'rescuing Dave's cows,'" he replied. The door fell shut behind him, punctuating his sentence with a click.

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed, glad there was nobody to witness it but shelves of medical supplies. He got back to work.

* * *

 

With Dean and Castiel both out of the office for the larger part of the day, the topic seemed closed. And anyway, Sam was too busy to care much beyond the first hour after opening. The lobby seemed overrun by a Biblical flood of kittens and puppies. A six-week-old golden retriever with diarrhea ruined Exam Room One for the afternoon - by closing, Sam almost had it sanitized again. It took the entire clinic staff plus the breeder to wrangle a litter of wriggly, nipping miniature dachshunds onto the scales. Sam might have been wearing gloves, but his fingers felt bruised from the gnawing.

He was beat, and looking forward to a hot shower and the smell of something other than institutional cleanser mixed with puppy poop. A vehicle crunched into the parking lot just as he was reaching for the "CLOSED" sign on the door. Sam looked up to see Castiel's green Prius, still coated in pale mud from the night before. Sam watched with a mixture of sympathy and dread, as Castiel lumbered out of the vehicle.

He was clean, at least. Given the morning and the state of his car, Sam half expected him to still be rimed in mud. Instead, he wore a white button-down shirt that dazzled in the late afternoon sun.

Sam backed away from the door and pulled it open for Castiel as he approached. Once he'd gotten inside the clinic, and Sam got a better look at him, he read the real story in the dark circles and puffy eyes.

"You survived," Sam said with a ghost of a smile.

"Barely," Castiel answered, half sigh.

"At least you'll get to make up for it tonight," Sam tried to be comforting. He closed the door, threw the bolt and flipped the sign behind them.

At his words, Castiel tipped his head. He reached into his bag and pulled out his tablet, thumbing the 'on' button. "I don't follow," he said, still looking at Sam.

Sam shrugged. "Sleep? Dean's switching with you tonight, right?"

"Why would he do that?"

Because it was a decent human gesture to someone who hadn't slept in roughly twenty four hours? Sam sighed. He couldn't be too pissed; after all, sleep deprivation was part of the gig - up there with bathing puppies covered in their own shit.

But Dean's smug satisfaction this morning was just a little too much.

"I'm going with you tonight, then," Sam found himself saying, before his brain had time to catch up, which seemed to be happening a lot lately, "You need a wheel man, or tomorrow morning we'll be towing you out of Camp Creek."

Castiel bristled. "I'm capable of handling my shift, Sam."

Sam winced. Okay, so maybe his offer wasn't one hundred percent altruistic. Did that mean God had to shit on every attempt he made to help? "Easy dude," Sam held up his hands, "I know. If not, Charlie wouldn't have asked you to come up here."

The look in Castiel's eyes went from annoyed to contempt, and Sam's stomach sank.

"Look, I didn't mean anything by it," Sam amended, digging for patience.

"I'm certain," Castiel's voice somehow hit a deeper, even more graveled basso, with layers of sarcasm Sam couldn't find the faith in humanity to peel back.

He waved his hands and went back to the computer. "Whatever," Sam said, and because he was a fucking martyr and couldn't help himself, added, "All I'm saying is, if you want a pilot, co-pilot," he shrugged, "let me know before seven. I've still gotta clean up. Your call."

Castiel picked up his tablet and stalked off. Sam spent the next hour being a _complete_ professional, taking his irritation out on the countertops with a brillo pad and doing his level best to pretend the conversation never happened. He was sure he'd heard the end of it.

It was nearly seven when Dean presented himself in the lobby, dropping his bag on the counter with a whump of finality. He was followed - none too closely - by Castiel, wearing an expression several shades darker than the glare he'd tossed Sam earlier.

Whatever was up, Sam told himself, he was _done_ for the day.

"So what'll it be tonight, Sammy?" Dean asked, somehow still a ball of energy in spite of muscling wormers and antibiotics into horses all day, "Hot wings and watching the Jayhawks whip Pittsburgh?"

That… actually sounded tempting. Sam hadn't been to a bar in what felt like forever. Not one beyond a five mile radius of the clinic, anyway.

As he was opening his mouth to agree; however, Castiel cut in.

"Actually," Castiel said, "I've just received an emergency call from the Dreyer ranch. Sam offered to - how did you put it? 'Be my wingman.' With so little sleep, I need an assistant. Otherwise I might jeopardize the practice's reputation. Not to mention, jeopardize my personal safety."

Sam eyed him in surprise. "It was 'wheel man,' Cas. And I thought you weren't up for that."

Castiel lifted his chin. "After some thought, I realized that it's the most prudent course of action."

Dean glared between the two of them. "Seriously?" He gaped at Sam. The look of betrayal wilted Sam's common sense, and he nearly went back on his offer.

But Sam was the one making worried noises over Castiel ending up in the creek. He sighed. "Sorry, Dean. Rain check?"

With a glare that made Sam's skin feel raw, Dean stalked out to the parking lot alone.

Sam followed him to the door, ignoring Castiel while he gathered his words. When he threw the deadbolt for the second time that night, he'd mostly figured out what he wanted to say.

"So, was that about you _actually_ wanting my help?" Sam kept his voice low, "or is this to get back at Dean? I don't know what the real problem is between you guys, but keep me out of it."

Castiel's chin hiked a trifle higher. "I believed you had a few ounces more humanity than your brother," he said slowly, "if your offer was made for appearances' sake, please," he gestured to the door, "by all means."

The comment got under Sam's skin like a sliver of wood. No, you're the asshole, you fuck off, Sam wanted to say. His fists clenched as he tamped it down. Castiel was his coworker, his superior, and if Sam was honest, he'd worked with worse people in the past. "Get your stuff, we're taking my truck," Sam snapped, and led the way out to the parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess, I flagrantly used this story to express my love for _[Due South](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Due_South)_ , which is a fabulously surreal Canadian police procedural from the Nineties.
> 
> Sam is a lying liar who's bought his share of Caramel deLites. Maybe someday he'll remember that they're not called Samoas anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning - this chapter includes brief mention of animal deaths. This might be upsetting for some audiences.

They pulled up to the Dreyer ranch with the last of the sunset behind them. Sam knew the Dreyer family - they ran a trail riding operation on twenty acres of federal set-aside land. They also bred and sold Australian cattle dogs, and were frequently in the clinic. Matriarch of the family Molly Dreyer was inside the barbed wire fence that ran the length of the road. She held the halter of a small, mouse colored mare, by the bright blue steel pipe gate. Several other members of the Dreyer family were in attendance, as well as roughly half a dozen dogs.

A youngster with torn jeans and a windburned tearstained face launched herself at the truck as Sam braked near the fence. He recognized her - Shay Dreyer, baby of the brood and self-appointed guardian of the livestock. She was present for every appointment at the clinic, minus the occasional conflict with grade school.

Shay's grubby thin fingers curled over the sill of the pickup's open window.

"Hi Shay," Sam greeted, "Who is it this time?"

"Pebbles," Shay said, voice wet and wilted, "is she gonna be okay Sam?"

"That's why your mom called us," Sam replied, patting her knuckles. She backed away and he popped open the door. Castiel followed suit, joining Sam with a small satchel and his stethoscope.

"This is our new vet," Sam explained, at Shay's worried glance.

"Doctor Bradbury," Castiel said gravely, and offered Shay his hand as if she was all of twenty, rather than ten. When she took it, he folded her small hand in both of his own.

Like a blessing, Sam thought.

"Please take me to Pebbles," Castiel asked.

Shay led the way to the pasture fence. Her mother, Molly, brought the patient a little closer as they arrived.

"Hi Sam," Molly said, dusty blue eyes flicking to Castiel afterward, "you must be Doc Winchester's new vet?"

Castiel climbed over the fence without a word.

"Yeah," Sam supplied after an awkward pause, "this is Doctor Castiel Bradbury. He's Doc Bradbury's older brother."

"Oh," Molly said. Castiel's probing fingers made Pebbles squirm and nose for the sky, and Molly jerked on her halter.

The grey mare's chest and forelegs were torn in several places. There was blood, although not a lot. The wounds looked deep, and a few flaps of skin hung loose.

"Barbed wire lacerations," Castiel observed, noting the pattern of the tears and punctures, "what happened?" He stood up as Pebbles stomped, and stepped back. She turned her head to peer at him warily, dark eyes white-ringed.

Molly's frown deepened. "I don't know, Doc. She was out in the pasture all day. Fine this morning, but came in like this tonight. We cleaned her up and calmed her down before we called."

"The lacerations are deep, but they look clean. There's not much swelling." Castiel stepped in again, stethoscope pressed to Pebbles' barrel while he rubbed her neck and shoulder. "Sam?"

He turned back to Sam, who leaned against the gate with Shay and the older Dreyer boys.

"Suture kit?" Sam asked, pushing away towards the truck.

"And Romifidine, please," Castiel said with a nod. The drug was an intravenous sedative as well as a painkiller, one with a quick effect at a low dose. As Sam moved to retrieve the kit, Castiel turned to Molly again. "If she can comfortably walk - do you have a quiet place where I can stitch her up?"

Molly nodded. "There's the barn. We got crossties in there for when we shoe 'em and give 'em baths. That work?"

"That will do," Castiel replied. The Dreyer children unlatched the pasture gate and swung it open, so Molly and Pebbles could lead the way to the barn.

Twenty minutes later, Castiel finished off the last of the sutures in the Dreyer barn, with Pebbles's nose resting heavy on his shoulder. At his other elbow, Shay took up Sam's job, fetching tools and assisting with Pebbles' bandages.

"Are all of your horses in a fence like the one that hurt Pebbles?" Castiel asked.

Shay nodded.

"Do your horses get hurt a lot?"

Shay shrugged, shoulders loose, long arms flopping. "Not really. Maybe sometimes. I guess?"

"Okay," Castiel said, his voice a careful neutral, "let's tape the rest of this up, and find your mom."

He maintained that neutral voice right up until Sam was guiding the pickup back onto the highway. Thankfully the cab of the truck could absorb the force of Castiel's explosion.

"These horses are their LIVING. And they use BARBED WIRE."

The barbed wire debate was old, Sam thought, old as some of the fenceline in the county. "Refencing is expensive," Sam said, "Dean says there's only problems if a horse doesn't respect the fence. Pebbles has never been hurt before. She must have spooked."

"And now she's going to have ugly scars," Castiel snarled, "Molly Dreyer said she 'calmed her down' first. God knew how long she was tangled up before she tore free. She had to be terrified."

The passion in Castiel's voice took Sam back. "The Dreyers are good people," Sam said defensively, "they're not perfect, sure, but they try hard. You saw Shay. She loves those horses.

"Then they should fence them safely," Castiel snapped, "mesh wire is just as effective and not wrapped in KNIVES."

Sam's patience ran dry. "I guess every operation in Florida has Doctor Bradbury-approved fence, huh?" he drawled.

Castiel said nothing, but if a person could aggressively look out a window, he was managing.

"They care about those animals," Sam needled, "if not, Molly wouldn't have called us."

"They may be 'good people,' but they're poor horsemen," Castiel replied, using air quotes that made Sam smile in spite of his irritation.

"You're wrong," Sam said firmly, recovering himself, "I don't care what you think. It's not as black and white as you're making it out to be."

Castiel glared, rolled his eyes back to the window with a sigh, and retreated once again into silence.

The pause gave Sam time to regroup; time to realize that this fight was about as winnable as the  _ Kobayashii Maru _ .  And he was more Spock than Kirk. Breathing through the inevitable adrenaline rush, Sam refocused his attention on the highway. Castiel had valid points - if Sam could choose, he wouldn't put any animal in a barbed wire enclosure. But he knew the Dreyers better than Castiel.

Which, yeah, didn't make Castiel completely wrong. It just made him a stranger.

Everyone's an outsider at some point, Sam remembered guiltily. When he and Dean moved to Lomax, they were outsiders too. To some, they always would be.

And here was one person who could maybe get that, and Sam had just done to him what the town did to Sam.

The apology bubbled out of Sam before he could stop it. "Sorry, Cas."

Up until now, Castiel had been a still life on the other side of the cab: one hand on each knee, staring out the passenger window. His gaze swiveled back to Sam. "For what?"

Sam's palms turned up on the steering wheel. "I don't know, for snapping at you?"

"I lost my temper, and you made reasonable counters for my outburst," Castiel replied, calm as if he hadn't been yelling ten minutes ago. He twisted his head from side to side uncomfortably; Sam heard joints cracking.

"Yeah but—"

Castiel interrupted him. "I get the sense that you apologize more than you're apologized  to ," he said, "you have nothing to be sorry for. In fact - I'm sorry. I forced you to accompany me and you likely haven't eaten."

Sam's empty stomach promptly reminded him of the wings he'd passed up.

"I'm buying you dinner," Castiel continued, "as a peace offering." He looked sideways at Sam again; quick and gone. By the time Sam registered the movement in his peripheral vision, Castiel was already turning away. "Provided you don't already have dinner plans."

Sam shrugged, rubbing the steering wheel with his thumbs. He still felt like he ought to respond to Castiel's apology comment - maybe defend himself. "Think we got time?" he said at last.

"I think so," Castiel replied, a smile in his voice, "Most of the cows in the county saved their calves for my first night."

The topic switched to nearby restaurants (well, bars), and after a brief discussion, Sam pointed them towards a tavern in a nearby river town. So 'river,' in fact, that part of the bar itself was propped up on high water poles in the shallows. The path from the parking lot led them onto a large wooden deck, commanding a view of the Mississippi River.

"This bar has a dock," Castiel observed from the railing.

"That's because people boat here."

"Really?" Castiel looked over his shoulder, disbelief so comical that it startled a laugh out of Sam.

"Dude, you're from Florida," Sam said, coming abreast of him and swatting him on the shoulder, "aren't beachside restaurants a thing down there?"

The look Castiel shot him for that remark was so dry, Sam wanted a drink. "Orlando doesn't have beaches, Sam, they have theme parks. The closest public beach is nearly an hour away."

Sam chose not to dig himself in any deeper. Instead, he walked across the deck to the tavern entrance and held the door open for Castiel. Yeasty, vaguely smoky air coughed over them on a wave of country music. "Did you go?" He asked.

"Where?" Castiel crowded close to Sam to be heard - not that he minded.

Cluelessness on a person that cute should be illegal, Sam thought. "The beach?" he said out loud.

"Oh. No. Well, once."

They found a pair of open bar stools. The bartender took their drink orders and handed them menus.

"Sam Winchester," she said his name with a petal-pink smile, and leaned on her elbows until her dark hair - and cleavage - threatened to spill over. "And here I thought I'd frightened you off."

Sam straightened his back and reached out to pull Castiel into the conversation. "Ruby, this is Cas Bradbury. He just started at the clinic yesterday."

Ruby looked Castiel up and down with pursed lips and hiked eyebrows. "Well, I  know  you can't be Charlie's hubby so, what, cousin?"

"Brother," Castiel supplied, unsmiling, "adopted." His shoulder was tight with tension under Sam's hand.

"Riiiight," Ruby nodded, looked him over once more, and dismissed him. She turned to Sam and her grin was back; soft and rosy and predatory. "I only ever see you when Dean-o's on call, but let me think - Diet Coke, Caesar salad with grilled chicken, dressing on the side?"

Sam chuckled nervously. "You got it," he said, which wasn't the truth, but it was what he should be eating.

Ruby's eyes lingered on Sam until his stomach bobbed.

"I'll have the same," Castiel said in a monotone, handing back his menu unopened, "hold the chicken."

Their salads arrived at the same time. Bar salads were rarely a great idea, and the oversized twin bowls of anemic romaine lettuce were some of the most compelling proof Sam had ever seen. The pathetic salad turned out to be pure gold, however. Castiel's horror was maybe the best thing Sam witnessed all night. "Yeah, I know, right?" Sam laughed, exchanging a wry look with Castiel, "Bar food's always a crap shoot."

Castiel nudged a pink tissue paper tomato slice with his fork. "Snake eyes," he replied.

"The fried chicken here is good," Sam said, as local pride twinged him to find something positive aside from the cold beer (which they couldn't drink) and the view, "Dean likes the Inferno Burger."

"Inferno?"

"Fried jalapeños," Sam explained, "and pepper cheese."

"That sounds - indigestible," Castiel said, looking faintly impressed.

"It so is," Sam agreed with a snicker, "I know that,  you  know that, Dean's  gut  knows that - maybe Dean will pick up on it eventually. Hey - Charlie never mentioned you were adopted."

"She pretends I'm not." Castiel's reply was toneless.

"That's cool," Sam replied, "From what she says about your mom and dad, they sounded amazing."

"They were more enthusiastic about me than my birth parents, at least," Castiel said tightly, then sighed. "I sound ungrateful. I'm not. Charlie's family was - is - wonderful. They loved me very much."

There was loss in his voice. Sam wished he'd never opened his own mouth. He nudged Castiel's shoulder with his own. "They're your parents too. Right?" He took a swallow of the Diet Coke at his elbow.

"They did the best they could," Castiel said, after a pause.

In the end, they gave up on the salads and shared a basket of fried cauliflower. The regret of that decision followed them back to the road.

On their way to the clinic, Castiel's cell phone whistled. He picked it up from the bench seat of the truck and took the call.

Five minutes later, they were off. Paul Brannaman's spread was on the other side of Lomax and down the Carman Blacktop, which was fortunate - they'd pass right by the clinic and pick up gear without losing any time. And time - if Castiel guessed correctly - was not on their side. A dead cow and several more in severe pain had prompted the call.

"You said Brannaman's new to the area?" Castiel asked, as they loaded tubes and pumps into the bed of Sam's pickup.

"Yeah," Sam grunted, and swung a jug of drenching solution into the bed alongside the gear, "he bought the spread this past winter."

"Did the previous owner raise cattle on those pastures? Did they have problems with bloat?"

Sam wracked his brain for Dean's work with the previous owner. It was the Mathers farm before Brannaman's purchase; a Black Angus Bull bearing the Mathers surname on its flank was still painted on the main barn. "Dean was always out there drenching cows after Jake Mathers died," Sam remembered. He climbed up in the truck. "Jake's youngest son took over, and Dean didn't like the guy much. Said he needed to reseed the pastures or rotate his herds more. Ken blamed it on the breed."

"Ken is an idiot," Castiel said.

They pulled out onto the highway once more. Sam shrugged. "Ken inherited the place from his dad. He must not have spent much time with the animals. Anyway, he auctioned off the cattle and had the farm up for sale in two years. I'll bet the pasture quality never came up when the new guy bought the place."

Castiel shifted in his seat, turning towards the window and the fields passing in the dark. "We're in for a very long night."

When they arrived, Paul Brannaman was waiting for them at the end of his driveway. He sat in the saddle of his four-wheeler, cut ghost white by the pickup's scissor headlights. Paul must not have changed clothes since he arrived home from work. The business suit that would have been starched crisp behind a banker's desk was liberally splattered with mud. Green rubber boots were coated in mud almost to the rims.

Paul's voice was a graveyard. "Lost another two," he said, "I moved the rest to the holding pen and set up the squeeze chute, like you said. Opened the back pasture gates - y'all drive on up."

The world darkened as Sam followed Paul's four-wheeler away from the security lights of the main drive. The little service road to the pen was deeply rutted and sloppy. "Hopefully we can save the rest of the herd," Sam said, searching for hope as he searched for Paul's taillights. His hands tightened as the wheel bucked and twisted in his grip.

Castiel let out a sigh, audible over the hum of Sam's pickup. "If he loses only one quarter of the herd, it'll be a miracle."

"That's—are you serious?"

Castiel shot Sam an unimpressed frown and sighed again. "Of course not, Sam. I always couch my diagnoses of dangerous illnesses in sarcasm."

Maybe an hour ago, two hours, Sam might have returned the shot. Instead, he laughed, then waved the sound away - humor and bloated cows didn't belong in the same truck cab tonight. "Sorry, man. I'm short on sleep. What do we need to do? Can I help?"

The crackle of gravel against the tires filled the pause that came after. Sam started putting together a polite out for Castiel as Paul pulled up short at a closed steel gate.

"Have you ever treated a cow with bloat?" Castiel asked.

"No, but I've read all—"

"Then probably not," Castiel replied, as if the idea that Sam might be useful here wasn't even on his horizon. And then he was out of the truck like a shot.

Sam's knuckles cracked as he squeezed the steering wheel. Hot pressure shoved up against his heart and he almost swore; almost put a fist-shaped dent in the armrest.

But that would have been the least productive thing he could do.

So he breathed. One deep inhale, and out. One more, two more, and he followed Castiel into the holding pen.

The cattle were sobbing.

Paul Brannaman only owned a dozen beef cattle, but the painful bellows filling the dark space made it seem like twice that number. Sam could see a few animals in his headlights, the rest visible by their white faces, drifting like ghosts. There were other people in the pen as well: Paul's eldest children, wife; neighbors and  their  ranchhands. A few were on horseback; the rest stationed around the perimeter on foot.

One of the most serious patients had already been persuaded into the squeeze chute. His breath steamed in the low light as Castiel approached him. From his vantage, Sam could see the steer's swollen flank, like a basketball pushed under the left side of his ribcage. While he watched, Castiel pinned the animal's head, urged his jaws apart, and inserted a silvery tube-like speculum into the steer's mouth. A rubber tube followed, fed down the throat a little at a time with Paul Brannaman's help.

Castiel and Sam watched the end of the tube. Foamy froth bubbled out of the tip.

Bloat. Sam recognized it instantly, familiar from nights just like this at Dean's side. He spun on his heel, sprinting for the truck.

By the time Castiel called for him, Sam was on his way back with two jugs of solution, one pump, three Brannaman children and six five-gallon buckets of water in tow.

"Sam," Castiel called a second time, "I need the—" he paused, staring at Sam and his ragged band of volunteers a moment, "—yes, that. We'll dose the animals that are still stage two. Starting with this one." He rubbed the broad face of the patient in the squeeze chute.

Paul Brannaman's wife stepped up, broad-shouldered as a valkyrie from the thickness of her pink camouflage coat. She waved to her husband and the knot of neighbors around him. "Keep 'em up on their feet!" She shouted. As a unit, all but a handful waded into the milling cattle with her. They knew what to do; cattle drenching was just another rural ritual, alongside the calving and the feeding and the herding. The rest stayed, wrestling bloated steers one by one into the squeeze chute.

The process took hours. Sam stirred antifoaming agent and shoved animals in and out of the squeeze gate until his shoulders were numb and twitching. Conversation ground down to its barest elements; single syllables and hand gestures; whistles and yips to the squat cowdogs weaving around the herd. The cattle milled and cried, voices echoing away into one long, continuous wave of sound.

"Doc!" One of the ranch hands hollered from the other end of the pen. Castiel's eyes darted to Sam, up from the head of the steer he held.

Sam's jaw clenched. "Got it," he declared, handed off the pump to Paul, and stepped up to put his arms around the protesting steer's head. He clamped one hand around the silvery speculum, feeling the sudden weight of the animal's head as Castiel released.

"Thank you," Castiel said earnestly, ducked around the squeeze chute, and hurried in the direction of the voice.

Sam turned back, to the worried faces of Paul and two older cattlemen, their drawn faces leathery as their gloves. He looked from one to the other, thought about smiling, and decided against it.

In spite of the tube prying his jaws open, the steer managed an impressive bellow, breathing the sweet stink of fermented clover into Sam's face. He tossed the hair out of his eyes. "Okay," Sam said, much to himself as to his volunteer assistants, "let's do this. Paul, put the pump back in the bucket and start pushing the plunger."

Paul obeyed, and clear solution launched up the rubber tube and down the steer's throat. It took a few minutes for the whole process, from start to tugging warm gummy rubber tubing out of the animal's mouth. Paul's neighbors opened the gates of the squeeze chute, which the steer was only too happy to vacate after a cough and a shake. So far, so good, Sam thought. He scrubbed sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and watched the meaty bovine rump bobble off to join his brothers. Astride a pair of laser-focused cutting horses, Paul's oldest daughters kept the treated cattle apart from the others. One of them moved out to intercept Sam's latest patient, moving him along with the help of a steel colored cow dog.

The slam of the squeeze chute brought Sam's attention back to center. He turned, and another steer watched him warily from the narrow yoke at the end of the chute. He huffed a grassy gust in Sam's face.

Right. He'd have to keep going. Sam tried to remember the process; how it looked when Castiel did it, all the checks Castiel used to make sure the tube didn't slide into the steer's windpipe instead. Sam had inserted stomach tubes before, but on more Pekingese than Polled Hereford Steer.

He started towards the steer with the loose end of the stomach tube.

"Winchester?" asked one of his assistants, cutting Sam's focus. The old cowman pointed towards the silvery speculum in his other hand - the one he'd just removed, somehow still shining though it had seen a baker's dozen mouths already.

Oh.

With a chagrined shake of his head, Sam shoved embarrassment away and swallowed his nerves. He let the older men persuade the steer to open his mouth, then set the long metal tube in place. He didn't relax until Paul got the pump going again and the steer - miracle of miracles - didn't drop dead with a load of antifoaming solution in its lungs. Then the tube was out, the steer was free, and another pushed into the squeeze chute to take its place.

Castiel returned as the next steer shooed out of the chute. He took his tools back from Sam, eyes tired and - did Sam dare think - grateful?

"Thank you," he said.

Sam was too tired, too cold, too sore for this shit. His heart bolted like an unruly colt, anyway. "Sure."

They bent back to work, toiling through the night as the lights of the pen collected moths and dew. When they were done, three more steers had died. Another two were alive, but barely, sporting the silver buttons of bloat trocars on their flanks, dribbling foam.

The sight of them shocked Sam. He knew plenty about large animal care from study and Dean, but the treatment - punching a hole in the steer's side to release the pressure before it suffocated - seemed archaic. Barbaric.

Castiel met with Paul Brannaman and his neighbors for a few minutes, after the last of the herd in distress had been seen to. Their gray heads bowed in a circle next to Castiel's dark one, like the huddle of an aging football team. Sam wasn't invited, and didn't invite himself. He had most of their gear packed by the time Castiel was finished.

Greenish stains darkened the front of Castiel's shirt, where the contents of more than one patient's rumen bubbled over. He smelled of salt sweat, grass, and night air.

"Thank you," Castiel said again. The words must have been winding up in him, since they rolled out in a rush as soon as he made eye contact with Sam, "I couldn't have managed without your help, Sam. I'm grateful you insisted."

He walked like the words chased him, hightailing it to the passenger side of the truck with the speculum swinging loose from his fingers. Sam watched the meteor of him fly by, marveling and not quite sure what any of it meant. He dragged himself into the cab of his truck with arms that were heavy and screaming in pain. The memory of Castiel's voice shone bright as fog lamps in his mind.

Castiel joined him a minute later. He squinted at Sam's dash clock, palmed his eyes, and swore.

Sam laughed in empathy. He pressed back in his seat, stretching tight back muscles as he turned the truck around. "If Charlie doesn't take pity on me tomorrow, it may be you doing the driving," Sam said, only half kidding. He and Dean might have had longer spates of weird sleepless hours on the road with Dad, but a body got used to regular sleep and didn't much appreciate change.

Castiel stretched as well, taking his time about it. He reached up to grab the bar above the window, and dropped his head against his arm. "You're far more competent than I expected. I've been rude," he slurred, like he was half-drunk.

"I'll alert the papers," Sam drawled. To his surprise, Castiel chuckled.

"You do that," Castiel replied, and the tightness uncoiled from his voice, rendering soft what had been hoarse. The roughness was a warm texture now, smoky as a John Lee Hooker vinyl. "I'm not normally like this."

"I get it," Sam said, "sleep deprivation's a bitch."

Castiel waved a hand at himself. Sam caught the flash of movement as they passed beneath the intermittent highway lights.

"No," Castiel huffed, "this. Angry. Wound up."

"Join the club," Sam replied with a shrug, "we meet on weeknights." The joke was slow to land - unsurprising considering it was nearly three in the morning. Then he heard a soft snort over the road noise.

"Are there lapel pins?" Castiel asked, "or tie pins. A schnauzer ate my last one - ate it right off my shirt."

Sam laughed, and the exhaustion seeping into his bones lifted a little. "Sure," he said, "I leave mine at home." When Castiel had nothing more to add, Sam steered the conversation back a page.

"But seriously," Sam said, "it's nice to know. That somebody else is screwed up. Mad all the time."

"Is it?" Castiel asked, sounding amused, "I'd assume 'disappointing' - an example of our degrading species." He laughed at himself. "Or something."

Sam grinned; defiant against the dark. "See, that's where we're different."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Unlike you, I have hope. I can't stay this pissed off forever, right?"

Castiel glanced sideways at him. "It's not looking good for you, I can tell you that," he said, "at least for another decade. Look at me."

"You're what, the same age as Dean, right?" Sam asked, "So you're not THAT many years older than me."

Castiel's grin reflected the thin light from the high beams as his head dropped back. "Which makes you - twenty-four? Huh."

"What?"

"You seem younger." Castiel reached down into the footwell, pulling his satchel into his lap. "It must be all that unfiltered hope."

The stop sign at the edge of town loomed in Sam's headlights. He flipped on the turn signal and braked. "Yeah, whatever," Sam retorted, "don't paint me as some Suzie-Q optimist, okay? That's not me."

"Then who are you?" Castiel asked, after a pause.

Sam looked at him sharply as the truck pulled into the clinic drive. He expected to find derision, but here in the brighter lights of the parking lot, he found nothing but curiosity.

"Who am I?" Sam echoed, pulling up to the door, "I'm a moron VA working a fourteen-hour shift, so my stupid conscience will shut up about the poor sleep-deprived new guy."

"That's all?"

"What do you want? My life story?"

"Do you have somewhere to be?" Castiel challenged, still smiling.

"Well, no. But it's boring."

Castiel took a breath, opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, and squinted at the bright windows of the clinic instead. "You're probably right," he said with a shrug, and climbed out of the truck.

Sam watched him go, open-mouthed. He'd met his share of personalities in this job, but the new vet blew hot and cold faster than a spring storm cell over the Mississippi. "Hey," he called out after Castiel, as he yanked the bag of soiled instruments down from the pickup, "you're kind of a jerk, you know?"

Castiel held the door for him. "I'm aware," he said. He was smiling again, which he'd done more in one night of hard labor and exhaustion than Sam could remember seeing since they met.

"I was homeless until high school," Sam offered, "Dad moved us around with him. Until Dean turned eighteen and decided that was it."

Castiel cocked his head as if hearing a faint, familiar song. "And Dean managed college with scholarships, and loans, and you moved in with a family friend."

"Dean told you?" Sam asked, surprised. Castiel shrugged in reply.

"When we were friends," Castiel said, relieving Sam of the bundle of grassy, sticky tubes. "He also said you had plans to be a veterinarian yourself. And open a practice together in Kentucky."

And this was Illinois, Sam heard, and this is Charlie's clinic, really, and here I am still coaxing cats to take a thermometer up the ass. "I did," he said defensively, following Castiel into the back of the clinic, "I do."

Without a reply, Castiel opened the bag of implements and turned on the taps at the dump sink.

Sam unreeled the tubes. "I've just been busy. Trying to save up to finish school."

Castiel donned a pair of yellow rubber gloves. He took the tubes from Sam and tossed them roughly into the sink. "If Dean Winchester can earn a scholarship, I'm sure you can."

"You think I don't know that?" Sam snapped.

Castiel didn't answer. He focused on scrubbing, sluicing hot water through the tubing.

"We're just getting stable," Sam continued, the words pouring out of him unbidden, "Between the two of us, we're making a mortgage work. I have a savings account for the first time in my life. I get National Geographic delivered TO MY DOOR, instead of reading last summer's issue in some waiting room that smells like hot gearboxes and axle grease."

Castiel's hands milked water from the soft rubber tubes. "Sam--"

Sam cut him off. "Sure I could probably get the money somewhere. But vet school takes years. How old am I gonna be by the time I'm ready? Why tear all of this good thing up, just so I can do that?"

Wrung out, Sam leaned over and picked up another coil of tube. They worked side by side for a few minutes, the faucet's hiss covering the silence pressed between them.

"Your family is not your sole burden," Castiel said, at last.

"Yeah? Dean humped three minimum wage jobs for two years, so he didn't have to hustle pool. So we could stay here," Sam retorted, flushing as he admitted their threadbare past. Bobby willed them the house, which was one small raft in the river of grief there. Otherwise, they'd be crammed in some tiny apartment, God knew where.

Castiel winced away from Sam. "I'm not saying you don't have debts to Dean," he said, "but it's family - those are debts you never pay down. And certainly not by letting him tie you down to an assistant position and a thirty-year fixed mortgage."

Sam closed his eyes, feeling heat creep up his neck to his cheeks. He felt stretched drum-tight, as defiance hammered at his throat to let it out. The exhaustion creeping over him was suddenly gone, swamped in adrenaline.

So he took a breath. And another.

"You think you've got me figured out," Sam said, struggling to control his voice as the pressure grew, "just because you have some kind of history with Dean. That doesn't mean you know me. OR my family."

Water backed up in the tube Sam rinsed; his grip too tight. It spilled gummy green water over his gloves. Sam looked down, breathed again, and forced himself to relax.

"I know what he does," Castiel persisted, "I know the narrow path he makes people walk when they care about him. You have a RIGHT to make your own--"

"Stop. Right now." Sam cut him off as the tube he held thumped into the sink. Castiel's eyes flashed up, finally catching the warning note in his voice.

"Oh. I'm--" Castiel's voice lost its tight edge, "I'm sorry, Sam."

He looked honestly worried. And the fucking apologies rushed up, just begging to say themselves; say the right thing so the tension would go away.

"Whatever," Sam snapped, to them as much as Castiel, "Look. Your problems with Dean? I don't care. But if you want to run him down, don't do it around me. We clear?"

Castiel cast him a sidelong glance. He shook the last tube and laid it on the counter.

"I understand," Castiel said.

They finished rinsing the equipment in an awkward, hurried silence.

Even with the immediate fires put out, Sam still smoldered. The easiness that started between them in the truck was long gone, with no signs of resurrection short of a Biblical miracle. Or someone's complete capitulation. That was about as likely as the next call being for a unicorn.

Funny thing was, Sam really wanted that phone to ring. If it turned out to be a unicorn, hey, problem solved (and they'd be famous, to boot). But if it was a horse with colic or a goat that ate a box of brillo pads, Sam would be out on another run. He felt better and more alive than he had in months as if the night, bad food, animals and caffeine high were some sort of messed up meditation.

The phone didn't ring again. Castiel fell asleep in Charlie's office. Sam processed invoices to stay awake and pretended not to be aware of Castiel asleep less than a bodylength behind him; pretended that wasn't why he was over here processing invoices off the clock when he could just go home. Charlie rolled in at four-thirty, right as Sam was having trouble telling if this was a bill for Amoxicillin or axe handles. She took one look at him, smiled over the sound of Castiel's soft snores, and waved Sam to the door.

"Half day," Charlie whispered, "have your butt back in here by one."

Sam went home. He was pretty sure, anyway. It could have been someone else's house, honestly, as exhausted as he was. He couldn't remember driving, couldn't remember stripping down to his tee shirt; couldn't remember much of anything but the smooth way the mattress snuggled up to meet him. Some paranoid piece of his hindbrain must have set the alarm and plugged in his phone.

He woke up to the tinkle of the digital piano alarm with his fists tight and his jaw clenched, and couldn't remember why.


	5. Chapter 5

A hot bar of sunlight pressed on Sam's bare chest until he woke. An entire colony of sparrows seemed to have taken up residence in the trees outside his window. Their twittering made it impossible to go back to sleep, though the missed hours clung to his neck like sandbags.

Sam shuffled into the bathroom and woke himself up with an icy jet of water. The cold shower lanced down his back, ripping off the last woolly layers of sleep. He washed his hair, and scrubbed off the traces of last night's humidity.

A vague uneasiness squirmed in Sam's chest. In the light of day, he couldn't exactly remember all he'd said to Castiel, but he had the sinking feeling it had been too much. Even with his blue jeans and a clean polo snug on his body, Sam still felt naked. He turned the taps on and lathered his jaw, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. The foam went on silky and fragrant, and as the muscle memory took over, Sam's thoughts drifted back to Castiel.

Fuck. Castiel. After last night's little show, the new vet probably thought he was a self-righteous douche for good.

And what if he did? Did Sam really care that much? The guy was moody and standoffish and he'd pounced on the first opportunity to take potshots at Dean.

But unless - by some miracle - Castiel quit this morning, they were still coworkers, and he'd still agreed to be Castiel's wheel man for the rest of the week. He had to care at least enough to keep his job. And, well - Sam did kind of care, for reasons other than convincing Charlie to sign those paychecks. Castiel said some aggravating bullshit last night, but a few bites of the aggravating bullshit still ricocheted around Sam's brain like a pinball. The bells rang truth; the whole damned pinball machine shook on its feet. But the only thing coming up on the scoreboard were big, bright question marks.

Sam's razor blade scuffed across his skin. The pleasant sensation rolled across Sam's body in a wave. He shivered; thought about how Castiel's cheek might feel on his. Or on his chest, on his thigh—

Vivid suggestions crowded in, clamoring for his notice until he shoved them off in a flood of arousal. It wasn't news, really. The push of his own desires had been a frustration since puberty. But he'd learned to cope, as one does.

Still, he thought - closing his eyes to hide his sheepish smile - it would be nice, wouldn't it?

Sure. Sure it would.

And, no.

Not the hard, gut-churning, rage-soaked denial of adolescence. Just a tired, easy, lowercase no. Even if Castiel didn't think he was repulsive at this point (unlikely), pursuing him would make the rest of his life complex. Sam needed no more complications. Things were messed up enough.

Sam put the thoughts away with his toothbrush and stretched his aching arms on the way to the kitchen, for his boots and a protein bar.

The brief drive back to the clinic settled his thoughts. By the time Sam walked into the lobby, the night before was lost in the white noise of the day.

For once, the seats weren't clogged with afternoon patients. Sam looked towards the counter, and his eyebrows shot up.

Charlie and Dorothy were tucked together, close as a pair of mourning doves. Their shoulders brushed, heads bent together over one of the clinic tablets.

"See?" Dorothy was saying, "It's not on this list."

"I see it, but I still don't believe it," Charlie replied, "How can _Pretty in Pink_ be a cult film, but not _Sixteen Candles_?"

Dorothy looked up first, a ripe blush on her cheeks. "He lives!" She cried.

Charlie dodged Sam's eyes and reshuffled the stack of invoices on the counter. The gap between her arm and Dorothy's opened a half inch at a time.

Uneasy at the scene, too tired for self editing, Sam laughed in self defense. "Tell that to my back," he said.

"Well," Charlie drawled, still not looking at him, "while I'm at it, I can also tell your back that we got a phone call from the Brannamans this morning."

Sam tensed. Had something gone wrong after they left?

"They called to say that Sam Winchester and the new vet were great, stayed up half the night saving their cattle, and they'd have lost most of the herd without you." Charlie's eyes lifted now, meeting his with a faint, nervous grin. "Nice work, Sam."

Suddenly the afternoon, and everything in it, was perfect.

Dorothy snatched up the tablet and came around the counter. "Come on. Six new puppies to clean up."

'Clean up' was code for 'scrub off the shit.' Sam groaned. "Really?"

"Really," Dorothy punched his shoulder on the way by. "Even better? They're _Labradoodles_."

Labradoodles, with thick, tight, blonde curls. Sam's sore shoulders twitched just thinking about it. "Were you saving this for me?"

"Absolutely not, how dare you," Dorothy replied, and laughed her way to the kennels.

As Sam was following her, he heard Charlie behind him. "Sam, wait."

He turned.

"I know what it looked like," Charlie blurted, "but Sam, you have to believe me—it's nothing. It's really nothing."

Sam stared for a second, late in processing the admission. When he got it, he shook his head. "Uh. Okay? It's really none of my business."

"Yeah but—look, you're my friend, and Dot's my friend, and I just want you to know—" Charlie's voice was plaintive and panicked, "—I'm not. She's not. We're not."

Duty was the better part of valor, and all that. Sam cast a furtive look down the hall where Dorothy had gone, then glanced back. "Okay," he said, quietly, "good."

"But if it did," Charlie said, "if we were, I mean—"

This was too much drama for someone who'd been conscious less than an hour. Sam rolled his shoulders. "Depends on if you treat her like the parakeet girl," he said.

"What? Elektra? She left."

"You know what I mean," Sam said, and shrugged. "The parakeet girl, the pony girl, the collie girl, the turtle girl…"

"—The turtle girl wasn't my fault. Sheesh, you're judgey this morning."

Sam made a _mea culpa_ gesture, both hands up. "I'm just saying. She's my friend too. Plus she works here."

"You work here too, don't forget that. For me. Your superior, whom you're not supposed to question. Nothing is happening," Charlie reiterated desperately.

"Okay," Sam said, and went to find Dorothy.

Remarkably, Dorothy was blissfully unaware of the conversation. With six shit-covered Labradoodle puppies to corral, however, that was only so surprising. Sam rolled up his sleeves, donned a pair of rubber gloves and pitched in. Scrubbing shit off a dog sounded better than talking.

The puppies were clearly not feeling well, and allowed Sam and Dorothy to handle them with a minimum of squirming. Dorothy gave Sam a rundown of their chart while he worked warm suds into their coats. Treatment for the mild virus was working, and the puppies were unhappy but not too dehydrated. The heat of the water and hands lulled the little bodies to sleep, some even before Sam finished rinsing them and handed them off into Dorothy's waiting towel. He felt them relax in his palms, and his thoughts softened in turn. Hard to hang onto drama with a trusting animal asleep in your hands.

Soap and humidity scrubbed away the smell of sickness. They tucked the puppies in a nest of clean towels and switched on the heat lamp over their kennel.

"What do you think?" Dorothy asked, straightening.

During the puppies' bath, Sam had forgotten the earlier awkwardness. "I think you'd better start the laundry."

"Not about that," Dorothy retorted, and jerked her head towards the lobby - and Charlie.

Sam stripped off his rubber gloves and scrubbed his face with both palms. At least then, Dorothy couldn't see him roll his eyes. "Dot, seriously—"

Dorothy was grinning when he put his hands down. "You do. You do think so," she said, eyes shining.

"I don't know," Sam replied with a huff, and gathered up the stray towels for the laundry himself, "be careful."

But nothing could short out the shine in Dorothy's eyes. The front door bell chimed and she spun back to the lobby, waving off Sam's caution with a laugh. "Like it'll ever happen anyway," she said.

With a shake of his head, Sam turned back to the growing pile of laundry. He jogged off to snatch the basket - some of these towels practically needed a hazmat suit. While it was true that Sam might not have enthusiastically encouraged Dorothy's crush on Charlie, he hadn't warned her off. Hell, a week ago he had no opinion whatsoever. Mature adults could date whomever they wanted.

Yeah, and a week ago, Castiel was still some anonymous new hire. Sam wadded up a dog-scented fleece blanket and chucked it viciously into the basket. Projecting, much?

He stood up and hoisted the laundry basket onto his hip. As far as he was concerned, mature adults could still date other mature adults whenever and wherever they wanted. Charlie and Dorothy were not his problem. Sam was one hundred percent neutral; office romance Switzerland.

In the middle of wrestling the laundry door open, Sam's phone buzzed in his back pocket. He started the wash cycle, stripped off his gloves, leaned a hip against the lip of the machine and pulled out his smartphone.

It was a text message, from - of all people - Castiel.

> _I need you. Stallion with colic. On my way to the office, meet you there._

Sam shoved a hand through his hair, took a breath to process, then launched out of the laundry and down the hall. Timing was critical when it came to colic.

He tossed extra supplies into one of the clinic duffels and let Charlie know what was happening on the way to his truck. She pressed her lips together. "Dean called him, didn't he? You can't tell me he's been that busy this afternoon!"

Sam shrugged, one foot out the door.

Charlie waved him off. "Fine, okay. But you're both causing my payroll department all kinds of headaches! And the payroll department is me!"

Castiel's Prius rolled into the parking lot just as Sam tossed the duffel full of equipment into the back of his truck. Sam wondered if it might be awkward, in the few seconds he had to himself outside before Castiel's arrival. But the new vet was all business. He hauled a bag out of his car, plopped it on top of Sam's in the truck bed, and hoisted himself up into the passenger seat without a word.

When they finally did make eye contact, it was brief. "Hello, Sam," Castiel said gravely, "I have the address. It's in Stronghurst—" he squinted at his phone, "—the Goodfellows. Tammy and Jean Goodfellow. They breed Morgan horses."

Stronghurst was fifteen minutes down the road. Castiel read off the address, Sam plugged it into his phone, and put the truck in drive.

The GPS rattled off a few unnecessary directions. Castiel picked up Sam's phone and examined it like there must be a genie inside. "How do you have 4G?"

"I'm magic," Sam replied.

Castiel snorted.

"My carrier, probably," Sam said with a smile, "It's shit if you cross the river, but over here it's good anywhere. None of the Iowa people can get a signal here."

"Sounds like a conspiracy," Castiel observed. His phone chimed, and he put down Sam's cell to retrieve it.

When he put it away a few tense, silent minutes later, Castiel was a different person. Sam could feel it. Even the air seemed heavier in the cab of the pickup. He didn't comment on it at first, considering it was none of his business and he'd like to avoid an encore of last night's performance. But somehow, with every minute of silence the space between Sam and Castiel grew. He was on the other side of the cab, turned away to the green rows of new corn flashing past. But he may as well have been in the next county.

They jolted over a nasty set of railroad tracks, and Sam couldn't take it anymore. "Is everything okay?"

Castiel's voice was sharp. "Yes."

Sam retreated under gunfire. "Awesome," he said, in a tone that implied some prime swampland for sale in Florida, if Castiel believed Sam bought that. At the prompting of the GPS, he turned right onto a gravel road, and slowed the pickup to a crawl.

Castiel peered at his speedometer. "Really?" he sneered.

"You want to go faster? Do it in your car," Sam snapped.

"The horse will be _dead_ before we arrive."

Sam's temper rose from warm to simmer. "I like my undercarriage right where it is, thanks."

Subsiding with an impatient groan, Castiel collapsed against the window, palm over his eyes.

By the time they reached the Goodfellow spread, Sam's last speck of charity was gone. Missing, too, was even the barest hint of a cool breeze. Spring must have finally given way to summer's humid vengeance. It was too hot to stay angry, and Sam put a lid on his annoyance.

A very tight lid.

In the slant shadows of the stable awning, a small red stallion sweated and groaned. Castiel's hands were gentle on the horse's barrel; his words terse. He looked up at Jean Goodfellow, tall and rotund in a polo emblazoned with the Goodfellow Farms logo; a fuzz of gray hair thin on his head.

"How long has he been like this?" Castiel demanded.

Jean reached out to rub the stallion's wide forehead. When the animal turned away, his other hand twisted in the cheekpiece of the horse's halter. "Couldn't be more than three hours. He was fine when the staff fed him."

Castiel glanced at the staff in question, standing on the stallion's other side with the lead rope in her hands.

"I doubt that," Castiel said, and touched the bell of his stethoscope to the animal's round, twitching belly.

Jean Goodfellow shot Sam a shocked frown. Sam grimaced in apology and bit his tongue, reminding himself that his opinion wouldn't do a damned bit of difference but escalate the tension. Horses were masters of body language, he remembered Dean saying; making the stallion nervous would delay treatment even more.

"What's his name?" Sam asked instead, "He's a beautiful animal."

"Rivermarch Vigil," Jean replied, "He's a Vigilmarch great-grandson and—"

"Impacted," Castiel interrupted, standing up, "Sam. Suggestions."

Sam scrubbed the annoyance from his expression with difficulty. He rifled his memory, thinking through the gear they'd tossed in his truck. "Bute for the pain, nasogastric tube to introduce fluids to clear the blockage?"

Castiel moved to the stallion's head without answering, where Jean Goodfellow still held his halter. "His water bucket is empty."

Jean's expression darkened. "Of course it is. We took everything out of his stall before we called you."

"Was it full?"

"If you mean, 'did we let a horse with colic try to rupture his gut,'" Jean's voice was tight, "no. I assume you're the new vet Doc Winchester warned us about. We do try not to make your job harder. I guess we must be smarter than those folks in Florida."

Sam closed his eyes and reminded himself to breathe.

"Cas? Bute's in your bag. Jean?"

Jean turned away from Castiel slowly, with the stare of a territorial dog. Sam's stomach went cold when their eyes met. He snatched a double-handhold on calm. "Do you have a hot water tap in the barn?"

Without a word, Jean took the lead rope from Rivermarch Vigil's groom, and sent her off to show Sam to the faucet.

Three hours later, Rivermarch Vigil was pooping like the three-time grand champion of whatever, Sam smelled like horseshit, and couldn't feel his shoulders. Again. On the way to his truck, he'd been stopped by Tammy Goodfellow, who informed him with sweet firmness that if Doc Winchester wasn't available in the future, they'd like to have a say in which vet attended.

Translation: if Castiel showed his face on their property again, they'd set the dog on him.

Sam, cheeks hot, reassured her that a note would be placed in their file, and thanked her for how patient they'd been. He climbed into the truck next to Castiel, and felt the goodwill curdle in his stomach.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He burst out, on the trip back to the highway.

"Excuse me?" Castiel replied as he slid his sunglasses on, the words half laughed. Like he couldn't imagine what had pissed Sam off this time. Like what just happened was no big deal.

"Look, you may be Charlie's brother and I might get in trouble for yelling at you - but since you almost cost Charlie _and_ Dean that farm's business, I think this is an exception. Why were you such an ass to that guy?"

"Because he treats his horses like a stock portfolio," Castiel snapped. "I spent years with owners like him. Too busy micromanaging the logos on the farm polos and drinking with their rich friends to know their own horses."

"What are you talking about? Jean was there!"

"And the staff was intimidated by him. Which says he spends most of his time somewhere else."

"Jesus, how'd you get such a massive chip on your shoulder? You don't even know them."

"And _you_ do?" Castiel's voice was sharp enough to draw blood, "Considering how friendly they are with your brother, that he 'warned them about me,' I'm surprised you needed your GPS."

Sam's fists squeezed on the steering wheel. "You know what? Dean may tell people you're a dick, but you're confirming it all by yourself."

"So you're saying it's _fine_ that he's undercutting me. Because reassuring _our_ clients that he's wrong is _my_ responsibility." Castiel's growl rebounded around the cab, "I can't tell if you're that much of a Winchester, or if he's brainwashed you into thinking nothing is his fault."

Sam slammed on the brakes, throwing both of them against their seatbelts. He pulled the truck over, snatched the keys from the ignition, and leaped out of the pickup. Charlie might forgive him for shouting at her brother, but not for throwing a punch.

The passenger door flew open, spilling Castiel into waist-high weeds. "What are you doing?" He shouted after Sam.

Sam marched away from the truck, boots stirring up puffs of gravel dust at the shoulder of the road.

When he was a quarter mile down the road, Sam turned. He expected to see Castiel's silhouette between him and the pickup, growing larger as he stalked back into the fray.

The passenger door still hung open. Castiel leaned against the fender, arms on the ledge of the truck bed. He was still, face red by the dimming evening light as he looked resolutely in any direction but Sam's.

Cicadas filled the silence, adding their white noise to the thick heat. Sam watched Castiel through the haze of his own footsteps, heart surging with adrenaline.

He wasn't going to follow Sam. That act was so unexpected, Sam's racing mind stopped spinning counterarguments to process it. This wasn't right. Sam knew how this was supposed to go, and this wasn't it. Now here he was, standing in the gravel dust like a moron, but eventually he'd have to go back because dammit, that was his truck and he had the keys.

By the time he made it back to the truck, the worst of the rage over the insult had passed. Castiel didn't look up until Sam was almost on top of him. That was deliberate. Sam knew how big he was, comparatively. Ninety nine percent of the time, he tried to act smaller than he was. Here and now, he took full advantage of every spare inch he held over Castiel. "I should kick your ass for that."

Castiel looked up at him, the sunglasses like a forcefield between them. "For being honest?"

"Being a dick on purpose isn't 'honesty.' Even if you're telling the truth."

"You admit it's true."

Sam tossed his hands apart. "What, that Dean's an asshole and doesn't like you and probably wants to make you leave? Did you somehow _not_ know that? Haven't you been trying to piss him off just as much?"

For once, Castiel had nothing to say.

"You hate us both, I get it, whatever," Sam added, "I know you think I'm like him, or else you think that I'm okay with the shit he pulls. For whatever it's worth, you're wrong? But the bottom line here, is that you two represent the clinic. If Charlie saw the shit you pulled, she'd be furious. I kept trying to save your ass with Jean Goodfellow but you just couldn't let me. That was some of the most unprofessional crap I've ever seen."

Castiel's eyebrows went up.

"And don't think I didn't see you playing vet school back there," Sam added. The height of him finally seemed to get to Castiel, who took a step back.

"You're more capable than you think," Castiel retorted, "After last night, I thought if I could show—"

"You're not my mom," Sam snapped, "I'm your assistant. Not your student."

Castiel stared at him, silent and unreadable behind those dark lenses. A few long seconds ticked off before he shook his head, raised his hands in surrender, and turned away. Sam deflated, passion and moral high ground dissipating without an audience.

There was nothing left to say.

Sam took them home. They rolled down the windows, letting the wind and whirr of cicadas fill the quiet cab.

"Am I going to see you back here tonight?" Castiel asked, as they headed inside.

"Not unless you need me," Sam said.

"Define, 'need me,'" Castiel replied, "You've proven relatively useful."

Sam opened the door to the lobby with overdone care and held it. "'Need me,'" he said under his breath, as Castiel walked by, "as in: drowning in a culvert."

Castiel ripped off his sunglasses and glared at Sam on the way past. He definitely had some biting comment planned, but it never got out of his mouth. Charlie intercepted him at the door, holding a cellphone and an outraged expression. "Cas? You're my brother and I love you, but _what the fracking Frodo did you do?_ "

Sam gave them a wide berth on his way to the back, saving his satisfied smirk for the hallway. He didn't swallow it until three hours later, when Dean wasn't home yet and a text came in from Charlie while Sam sat on the back porch with a beer:

> _Cas off tonight. His dad died this morning. Dean filling in._

Those were definitely words, Sam thought, but they didn't make any sense. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and reread the text. With slow-dawning horror, Sam remembered how Castiel had changed so suddenly in the truck, on the way to the Goodfellow farm. Not that it was out of character for Castiel to act the jerk.

He thumbed a quick response. _I'm so sorry, Charlie,_ Sam answered, _how are you holding up?_

A minute later, Sam's phone chimed with another text:

> _I'm fine. Dad died like ten years ago. It's Cas's birth father._

Sam read the words a few times, texted Charlie a thank-you, and sagged back into the corner of the porch swing. Shame burned whiskey hot in his gut. He put the phone down on the swing's peeling wood slats, then picked it back up. Opened up his message thread with Castiel. _I don't know if this is a culvert situation,_ Sam typed, _but I'm sorry and_

He erased it, and went inside.

The guilt dogged him; left him staring at the shadows on his bedroom ceiling, hours later. Even if the things he'd said were true, if he'd known about Castiel's father—

With a groan, Sam palmed his eyes and gave up. He rolled out of bed and touched the lamp. Warm light filled the room. If he'd known about Castiel's birth father, he'd have made allowances. Fought harder to cover for him. Let him skip out on the consequences, just like Castiel said Sam did for Dean. But that was a false equivalence, Sam thought, and Castiel was wrong anyway. Since when was sympathy and forgiveness some kind of cardinal sin?

His shoulders and neck had gone tight. Sam didn't notice until he reached for the glass of water on his nightstand. He closed his eyes with a huffed laugh at his own stupidity. It was annoying how Castiel kept getting under his skin, but one asshole's comment didn't negate everything about Sam. Whatever history Dean had with Castiel, they weren't brothers. Castiel didn't know him. Didn't know them. Sam breathed out the tension, and looked up towards the clock on his desk. The two-inch-high red LED digits declared just how much Six AM Sam was going to hate him.

One in the morning. Too early to just get up for the day, and tomorrow would suck no matter what. Sam considered Netflix, briefly, before his eyes fell on the stack of glossy, candy-bright folders next to the clock.

College brochures. Applications started and left half finished, or sealed and never stamped. Sam's full attention shifted to them like a camera lens focusing.

He thought about Castiel again, quizzing him on the horse with colic like he was an intern. The anger was back, and Sam let it push him off the mattress. Maybe it was the rage, maybe the lack of sleep, but Sam never stopped to question as he wiped the thin film of dust from the top folder and opened it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm a doof whose author name isn't the same as my blog, you can find illustrations for each chapter on tumblr, either by visiting [this post](http://jazzforthecaptain.tumblr.com/post/160290040333/fieldwork1), or checking out the Tumblr tag "[Field Work Wednesday](http://jazzforthecaptain.tumblr.com/search/field+work+wednesday)." You can also find moodboards, playlists, sketches and other random Field Work-related stuff in the "[Field Work Friday](http://jazzforthecaptain.tumblr.com/search/field+work+friday)" tag. I know, super original, right?


	6. Chapter 6

He was right. Six AM Sam wasn't just annoyed, he was _furious_.

Every noise in the clinic lobby seemed set at an excruciating volume, while Sam's thoughts felt wrapped in a double-layer of fleece. He wondered if this sleep deprivation thing was going to become a habit now; one more thing to blame on the new asshole vet.

There was that, too. His rage seemed to be on a hair trigger this morning. The big red button was bigger than usual, and glowing. Sam just couldn't seem to stop himself from mashing that fucker flat into the console. He'd downed enough coffee to make a weaker man crumble and was considering dousing his head under the cold tap on his next break, when Castiel walked into the lobby.

Their eyes met.

And the big red button slammed down again.

Sam tipped his chin up and held Castiel's eyes. It was aggressive and a small part of him felt guilty, but the guilt only made him angrier.

To his surprise, Castiel looked away first. He muttered a stiff good morning and came around the counter to pick up his messages.

Dead father, Sam reminded himself, and reached for his thermos of coffee for about the thousandth time today. Civil words didn't want to come. Uncivil words would probably get him kicked off Heaven's housing list - God knew he'd thought enough awful things today to deserve it. With the bitterness at bay, however, there seemed very little to talk about. Yesterday's confrontation sucked all the oxygen from the room.

"Dizzy's going home today," Sam said with an effort, "close call, but she's back on her feet. We took her off the IV drip yesterday."

Silence for a moment. Sam looked back, to find Castiel still buried in the call log. He glanced up with a blank expression. "Oh. I was under the impression we weren't speaking."

One of the patrons in the waiting room chairs looked up from her collie and shot them a covert glance. Sam let the remark slide.

Castiel didn't seem to notice. "Which one is Dizzy?"

"The calico cat who came in the day you started. She drank antifreeze."

"That's fortunate. Hopefully her people mop up the toxic chemicals next time."

Sam made direct, shocked eye contact with the patron _and_ her collie. He scrambled to change the subject. "Yeah. Charlie said you were under the weather last night. Kinda surprised you came in today. You must be feeling better?"

Castiel stared, brow furrowed. "Charlie did not tell you I was ill."

Mentally, Sam palmed his eyes. Even the collie looked embarrassed. He cleared his throat. "No. Uh. She didn't."

Castiel's eyes dropped back to the call log. "I'm fine. I never knew the man."

"Oh. Well, I'm still—look I'm sorry."

He may as well have said it in Urdu. Castiel's gaze returned to him, squinting as if what he'd just heard was so incomprehensible, he must have heard it incorrectly. Embarrassed heat blossomed across his skin. Fabulous job; Sam thought, you've managed to ruin your own workplace in less than two weeks. You should write a fucking blog.

Castiel's cellphone whistled. He went for it, still looking at Sam. "Thank you," he said, earnest, "and thank you for asking." He answered his phone and scuttled to the back of the clinic, oblivious to Sam's flustered stare.

Sam raised his eyebrows to nobody in particular. All right, then.

The lobby door jingled, which jammed the day into fast forward. Sam got lost in the hi-welcome-to-the-Bradbury-Clinic patter; handing out clipboards; plugging in data; answering the phone until Dorothy swapped places with him. By the time he'd taken the last cocker spaniel's vitals, Sam expected to be drained.

He wasn't. He was restless. The college applications left unfinished on his desk filled up whatever free space Sam's brain had left. They loomed over him, storm cloud threatening. He'd go for a run tonight. That usually helped clear his mind.

Just a few minutes before closing, the lobby door opened one more time. Sam looked up from scrubbing Exam Room B, expecting to see Dean. Instead, an elegant woman stepped up to the reception counter, heels tatting on the tile. She wore a neat black pantsuit, her hair was long and red as Charlie's. Before Sam could see her face, he saw her hands - empty of a carrier. Left her pet in the car? Sam wondered.

The strange woman leaned on her elbows on the counter. She said something to Dorothy, who shot Sam a puzzled look across the lobby.

There was his cue. Sam reached for a paper towel and stepped out of the exam room, wiping his hands. "Hi. Can I help you?"

The woman turned. She looked him over and fixed on a faded smile. "Hi. I'm Anna Sparks. Are you Charlie?"

Sam laughed as he shook her hand. "Nope. Sam Winchester. Vet tech." He glanced at Charlie's closed office door. "I think Doctor Bradbury might be taking a call right now; do you have an appointment?"

Behind Anna at the reception counter, Dorothy shrugged and spread her hands. She must have had this conversation with the stranger already.

Anna's chin hiked a fraction. "No," she replied after a pause, "I'm actually not here for Doctor Bradbury; rather, his—"

"—her," Sam corrected.

Anna's cheeks pinked up, eyes squeezed. "Oh. I'm sorry. I'm here for her brother. Doctor Castiel Bradbury. Your receptionist—"

Dorothy interrupted. "Hi! Also a vet tech. Dorothy Baum." Her voice was clipped. With a droll smile, she waved as Anna looked over her shoulder. "Cas is probably out with a client."

Charlie's office door swung open. "Cas isn't here," Charlie said firmly, "I'm Doctor Bradbury. Can I give him a message for you?"

Anna - off kilter - looked from Sam to Charlie and back again. "I'd prefer to speak to him in person. Does he have a business card?"

"Still being printed."

"Is there a number I could reach him at?"

Charlie's expression was a shut gate. "I'm sorry, we don't give out our employees' personal info." She stepped out of the office doorway and leaned on the counter. "If you'd like to give me your number, I can let him know you stopped by."

Shock sprawled across Anna's face. A beat passed before she pulled her strings taut again and went on. "Yes. Of course. I understand." She slipped a tiny black backpack down from one shoulder, and dealt a business card from a chrome case. "He can call me whenever it's convenient. Please let him know," Anna said, handing the card to Sam.

She left after that, as quickly as she could and with all the socially appropriate noises.

Sam got a glimpse of the business card before Charlie took it away. "She's from Florida," he said.

Charlie read the card before pocketing it. She went to the door, watching as Anna's car slid out of the parking lot. "She's from a law firm. She could be from anywhere. Also? She could totally be my twin. Is it narcissistic to think she's super hot?"

"And super rude," Dorothy muttered viciously.

Sam tried to drag Charlie back on topic. "Isn't Cas from there? What would a lawyer come all the way up here for?"

"I don't know," Charlie replied, and clacked the deadbolt home, "but I'm gonna find out."

There were two voicemails and a dozen text messages on his phone when Sam got back to his bag. Most of them were from Dean; no surprise there. Apparently, their next door neighbor had a three-day-old litter of kittens. Most of the messages were pictures of sleek, dark tabby babies; mouselike in Dean's huge hands.

Two were from Dorothy, more or less offering context to the venom directed at Anna Sparks. The first one had a time stamp from this morning. _Charlie asked me to dinner,_ she said, followed by about six devil emojis. As he was reading the first, the second popped up underneath it. _Should I cut my hair? I was going to cut it but now I think no._

Probably a rhetorical question. Safer to treat it that way.

The last one was from Castiel, and caught him off guard:

> _I need a night driver next week. Fully aware I'm not drowning in a culvert. Interested?_

No, Sam thought, and put the phone back in his bag without answering. After a minute, he dug it out again.

_Not drowning, not interested,_ Sam began to type back. He considered being less flip, considered being more flip. Remembered the dead father. Felt bad; felt annoyed at feeling bad, and erased the message. Castiel was either fucking with him, or Sam was a last resort. The answer was still no. The needle of his charity tank was on 'E,' especially where Castiel Bradbury was concerned.

"Hey Sam?" Charlie's voice echoed down the hallway. "Can I ask a favor?"

Sam closed his eyes. Please don't let this be about Cas, he thought.

Of course it was. Of course the asshole went right to Charlie.

Son of a bitch.

"Sure," Sam said.


	7. Chapter 7

Just one more week, Charlie said. After that, peak calving season should be on the downswing. If Sam could do her this favor and look out for Castiel for one more week, she'd compensate him with time and a half, plus a raise starting next quarter. Sam - covered in warm placental fluids, mud and cowshit for the second time on Monday night - was really glad he'd gotten that in writing

"There she is," Castiel murmured, while the newest future contributor to the American dairy institution bobbed her wet head like a drunk. The calf was a girl, alive and healthy, and the dairy farmer leaning over Sam's shoulder was ecstatic. He called his wife to wake up their cow-crazy toddler, and snapped a picture of the new calf by the headlights of Castiel's new jeep.

"Mudroom in the tractor shed if you want to clean up?" the farmer offered as Sam stripped off his shoulder-high plastic gloves.

"Thank you," Sam said, in a tone for prayers and miracles.

Halfway to his truck for his duffel bag, Sam remembered. 'His truck' was not his truck. It was Castiel's jeep. He'd rolled up to the clinic in a loud, lemon yellow J10 Honcho that looked more pickup than army surplus with a rack of moon lamps on the roof, and declared that he was driving. The duffel was still sitting in the footwell of Sam's truck in the parking lot of the clinic, where he'd forgotten it in the shock of the aforementioned jeep. Well, shit. Literally.

Deciding that wet and kind of clean was better than the alternative, Sam headed for the tractor shed anyway. He stripped off his shirt and turned the taps on high, shoving his arms under the cold water with a full body shiver. It felt good. Better than the muggy night, for sure.

His cell phone lit up on the counter. Dean. For about the fiftieth time that night. His big brother wasn't happy about Sam staying on another week as Castiel's navigator. He couldn't argue much with the raise or the overtime, but demanded the play-by-play on Sam's shift. The texts rolled in almost from the minute Sam left the house. How long has the labor been? Had Cas done this? Was the cow doing that? Had he used this drug? And so on.

Jesus, it was like having a jealous boyfriend again. Except instead of checking up on Sam, Dean wanted to play back seat veterinarian.

Sam humored him for the first calf, although he felt a little traitorous in doing it, right until Castiel called him into help.

The door clacked behind him. Sam fumbled the phone to the counter, as Castiel joined him at the large sink.

Well, sort of. More like, stood there next to the sink and watched him. Sam sidled over, gesturing for Castiel to share the water as he scrubbed a scratchy bar of pumice soap down his arms. That seemed to kick Castiel into motion, who finally put his own duffel down on the counter and leaned into the water. They washed up side by side in silence for a few minutes, even smiling at each other, making Sam wonder if the solution here was just not talking. Maybe they could communicate with military hand signals from here on out.

He squeezed water out of his scrubbed shirt and held it up. Yeah, that was no good. Getting it over his shoulders would be impossible. Shit.

At his left, Sam heard the duffel unzipping again. Castiel held out a neatly folded gray tee shirt. "Here."

In spite of the situation, Sam couldn't help but snicker. "Thanks, but I don't think that's gonna fit."

Castiel rolled his eyes and thrust the shirt at Sam. "Yes, I'm aware that you're tall. I wear it when I run. It's a size larger."

"You run?" Sam asked, surprised at the trickle of interest. He took the shirt with skepticism and tugged it over his head. To his surprise, it fit - mostly.

Hot as a handprint, Castiel's gaze landed on his exposed navel. "Ah."

"I'll take clean and dry any day," Sam said quickly, wadding up his wet shirt and turning away. "thanks. Nothing I can do about my jeans, sorry about your upholstery."

Castiel had no comment. He continued to have no comment, until they'd put a few miles of gravel road behind them. The new jeep did a crap job of quieting road noise, but the silence in the cab was comfortable. Sam gave the military hand signals thing another consideration. He picked up his phone, still blinking blue with Dean's last unchecked text.

There were two more now. One from Dean, one from Dorothy. His lock screen offered a preview of the latter, which started with a devil emoji.

"I run," Castiel offered suddenly, "I assume you do."

"Couple times a week; clears my head," Sam said, and put the phone facedown on the seat between them.

"'Couple times a week,' Sam, come on," Castiel scoffed, "Dissembling is for the insecure."

Sam blinked, attention snapped sharply away from the unanswered texts. "What?"

The pause in the jeep was so pregnant, it could have littered kittens. Castiel rubbed the back of his neck. "Your enthusiasm," he said, like the words had to be yanked out of him, "it's obvious."

"Oh, what, because I thought maybe there was one thing we had in common?" Sam bit back.

Castiel's strangled groan filled the cab. "Yes," he said, when his tires hit the highway, "we do. We run. An activity that seems to have reached _Nickelback_ levels of irritating popularity."

Sam's phone beeped again, somehow with more insistence. Fuck everything. Fuck Dean. Fuck Dorothy. Fuck Castiel especially.

"Sam, I'm not—good—at this."

"Common decency?"

Castiel sighed. "Well, yes. For starters. I was clearly out of line, and I apologize."

Dead father, Sam reminded himself, with a guilty start. Dead father, dead father, grief makes people do weird things, dead father. Fuck, Sam was a horrible person. A decent guy wouldn't have to remind himself all the damned time.

"It's fine," Sam replied, through a tight jaw.

"It's not fine," Castiel insisted, "I'm aware that I've been—"

Castiel's phone rang, startling them both. With another sigh, Castiel answered it.

As they hurtled towards another cattle farm, Sam checked the messages he'd been neglecting. Dean's latest previewed on Sam's lock screen.

> _U ok? Sammy answer me!!_

Sam rolled his eyes. Well hey, at least this question actually pertained to him. _Everything is fine,_ Sam texted, erased the _fuck off_ that tried to follow it, and added _why are you still up?_

"To be candid," Castiel said, "I'm surprised you agreed to help me."

The big red rage button pulsed like a dying sun. Sam mentally sat on his hands. "'Agreed' is a strong word. I don't remember having much choice."

"That's not true. Of course you did."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah? You asked the person who signs my paychecks."

"Who also seems to be your friend. Although she takes outrageous advantage of you."

"She's still my boss," Sam reiterated, "and also your sister. Do you not get how that works?"

Castiel swept a hand over his face. "After I messaged you, it occurred to me that a request for your help should go through official channels. When I asked her, I suggested you deserved adequate compensation, either in pay or time off, if you agreed."

"'If' I agreed? To watch out for her _brother_?"

"Yes—well—" Castiel spluttered, and trailed off into an earsplitting silence. Sam turned away from him to the window, shocked at himself for calling Castiel to the mat again and wondering how much skin he'd lose if he bailed out right now.

"You think I asked my sister," Castiel said slowly, "to force your compliance."

The hurt in his voice took Sam by surprise. He swept the guilt away. He could feel shitty about poking the guy after his father's death, because that was something Sam had actually done. But this was on Castiel. "You made it hard to say no," Sam said.

"That wasn't my intent," Castiel replied, voice almost lost beneath the whine of the tires. With no good answer to offer, Sam let his silence do the talking.

Castiel spent the rest of his attempts at conversation on the clients and their cattle, which was fine with Sam.

By Tuesday, they'd both reached the same conclusion - at least as far as Sam could tell. The situation had to stand for another three nights. Their ability to cooperate was a matter of professional survival. They could go back to ignoring each other after that; at least as well as any two people in a five-person team. Castiel kept up a polite front for their patients' humans, occasionally even bordering on kind. If he was judging them on the inside, he kept it to himself. No sarcasm. No sweeping generalizations about how rural Henderson County treated their livestock.

A contrary part of Sam was disappointed. But if some messed up part of him missed the arguments, or couldn't quite shake the guilty pit in his stomach when Castiel's eyes swerved him; well, Sam wasn't the kind of guy to look a gift horse in the mouth.

That was a lie. He was the kind of guy to pore over the molars and hooves and still kinda doubt the thing.

But it was nice to just do the job. Hell, they actually made kind of a decent team when they stuck to the work. And if he got home keyed up and frustrated at three in the morning for no particular reason, Sam knew how to make restlessness productive. He took it out on the unfinished college applications that still waited on his desk; emailing professors, researching scholarships and loans, and writing entrance essays by moonlight, drinking wine to combat the fear and self-doubt that made him second guess every line.

It made the whole process simpler to keep from Dean. He wasn't sure why he'd decided to keep it a secret. It wasn't like Dean would get in his way. Well. Dean would get in his way, but no more than their Dad or Bobby ever might have. Sam wanted - needed - to do this on his own. Dean hadn't needed any help to get into graduate school. Sam's grades were better, even if the gap between his last schooling and now was wider.

The first application went in the mail on Thursday morning. Boiling with excess energy after an uneventful night on call, Sam sneaked out of the house like a teenager. He jogged to the post office two miles away, oversized envelope under his arm. The false dawn tinted the county road purple, while fear and frustration billowed up inside him like a storm cell.

This was it. No turnarounds.

As Sam neared the center of Lomax, silent houses crowded closer. Chainlink fence and dark lawns replaced the weedy, timber-lined shoulder of the road. Sam passed the fire station and the senior citizens' center, panting in time with his footsteps and the crinkling slap of the application against his side. Around the corner was the red brick post office, unchanged since the Fifties, spotlighted by the American flag in its postcard-sized patch of lawn. Sam doubled over by the mailbox, chest and face burning from the exertion.

He turned the envelope over in his hands; checking the address, checking the seal and the stamps. Checking them again.

Oh for God's sake. Sam yanked the mailbox open with a creak, tipped the envelope in and watched it vanish down the mailbox's dark throat.

He turned, got a few steps away, and scrubbed away tears with a wet laugh.

The rest of his run felt like flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curious about Castiel's jeep? It's a 1982 Jeep J10 Honcho.
> 
> It's [this one](https://www.google.com/search?q=twister+jeep). Exactly.


	8. Chapter 8

"Sam? Can I get a minute?" Dean said from the clinic hallway.

Sam leaned sideways, peering around the three-deep line of patients. With barely twelve hours between now and his illicit post office run, the guilt must stand out like a billboard. But it couldn't be about that. Dean was snoring when Sam got back to the house. "Uh. Sure. Hang on," he said, and turned back to the line.

Dean waited. For fifteen minutes, he leaned against the wall, arms and ankles crossed, chatting with the waiting room at large. His voice was too sunny, with a cowboy's big, shark grin.

Shit, Sam thought. Dean knew, or he thought he knew, and he was pissed. His shoulders knotted up as he finished the paperwork.

In the safety of the back room, Dean's genial facade slipped a little. "Nice to see you alive."

"Yeah, you too, I guess?" Sam replied, laughing in self defense.

"So what gives? You forget how to text?"

Understanding clapped down on Sam's back like a heavy hand. "Oh, you mean Monday? Sorry about that. You got the reports on—"

"Nah, Monday, I figured out. It was Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday," Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, "you've been a ghost all week."

"Today's the last day," Sam replied, lame, realizing with a guilty start that he'd been so wrapped up in making this night shift thing with Castiel work that he hadn't done much else. "And you did the same thing last week."

"Yeah, because I was _on call_. Tough to text with my arm up a cow's asshole. You're what, manning the GPS?"

Sam's mouth fell open. "Do you and Cas talk to each other at all?"

"Not if I can avoid it," Dean's voice was ugly.

"I've been hands-on, almost every call!"

"You're doing his job for him now?" Dean asked with a sharp look.

"No!" Sam's hands flopped. He drew himself up with a deep breath. "You know what? Read the reports. What is this about? Me not texting? Or Cas?"

Dean reared back. "Whoa, what? What about Cas? I wasn't trying to get hold of him, I was looking for you."

The memory of deliberately ignoring his brother's messages glowed in Sam's mind. Dean may have been interrogating him about Castiel, but Sam put the phone down unanswered, all by himself. A hard knot of guilt pressed up under his breastbone. "I'll pay more attention, okay, I'm sorry. It's not like I was missing. You knew where I was."

Tension washed over the quiet room. Wrong answer, Sam thought.

"Yeah," Dean said eventually, "that's exactly why I don't like it."

"Dean, what is your problem? Castiel's not some—"

"He's a cutthroat bastard who'd sell his grandmother to Satan for a corn chip," Dean shot back, "you don't know him like I do."

"Then tell me," Sam retorted, "tell me what this big secret is!" He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Dean's lips pressed together. He glanced down the hallway, towards the lobby. "You really wanna know?"

It was too late to say no, and the thought of saying yes felt like betrayal. Betrayal of who? Castiel? The guy with a superiority complex wider than the Mississippi? How did any of his behavior up to this point warrant Sam's loyalty?

"Will you stop being a paranoid jerk if I know?" Sam asked, evading both answers and horrified at his own complicity.

Dean shot him a sour look. "Fine. Saturday. You bring the whiskey."

"Really? Whiskey?" Sam echoed incredulously, shuffling past Dean back to the lobby.

"It's that kind of story, yeah," Dean said, "just watch it with him, all right Sammy?"

Too angry to sort the fear from the arrogance in Dean's order; too exasperated to find a civil answer, Sam waved without turning around.

* * *

Consciences are unpredictable things. Sometimes they shoot you in the gut and it never heals; you just bleed and bleed and hurt randomly years later for no reason. And sometimes they stick your finger, with a burning pain that's gone in a week. They never follow any kind of logical rules, either. Big things hardly twinge at all; little things are like the world's coming down on your back.

Sam didn't like to be a drama queen, but from long acquaintance with guilt, he knew the warning signs. His conscience on this was rapidly approaching gut-shot level.

He wanted to know the Deep Dark Secret between Dean and Castiel, and not for any noble reason he could use to justify it. It took Defcon 5 levels of self-involvement to make this his business. It haunted him throughout the Friday night shift with Castiel.

They answered their first call while the sky was still sunset rosy. The impending conversation with Dean dogged Sam's footsteps; lurked in the back of his mind with every taut word they exchanged. His brother was about to tell him some sordid part of Castiel's past, and in spite of Sam's determination not to be swayed, he was. Just the shadow of potential had him looking at Castiel differently.

Brilliance struck on the way back to the clinic. Sam sat up straighter, burning with desperate resolve.

"Cas? Been wondering about something," Sam said. His voice startled him, the sudden sound of it strange in the cab after so much quiet.

On the other side of the jeep, Castiel made a noise. Dismissive or encouraging, it didn't matter. Determination to solve this problem had Sam firmly in its grip.

"I don't know how this is gonna come off. I'm sorry in advance. Dean mentioned you guys had history," Sam barreled on. His hands worried the strap of the duffel between his knees. "All I know is, you were friends at some point and you knew each other in college. I don't want— I don't need the details. I'd just appreciate some help figuring out how to talk him down."

"About me?"

"Yeah."

Silence was Castiel's answer, spun out as miles and minutes passed. Sam's resolve stretched thin; he grabbed blindly for a new subject.

They started speaking almost at once, and fumbled to a stop in unison, nudging an uncomfortable laugh out of Sam. "Uh. You go," he said.

"I don't know how to help," Castiel blurted, "Your brother - while a fine veterinarian - is unreasonable about people he doesn't trust. That's not to say—" he paused again, making a frustrated noise in his throat, "—it's not an accusation. Contrary to his likely opinion, I don't hate him. But it's fact. I don't know how you could possibly 'talk him down,' or why you'd want to. Defending me for any reason - even a purely professional one - could damage Dean's trust in you, as well."

Sam stared at him in shock.

Castiel glanced over. "What?" He demanded, turning away.

"Nothing," Sam said slowly, "just… I think that's maybe the most you've ever said to me in one go."

"Is it?" Castiel's voice was faint. "My point still stands. Whatever I say could cause further complications for you. I'd like to avoid that."

They rolled on towards Lomax without speaking, while Sam struggled with the new information. More than that. Castiel's tone, his words, the sheer amount of words, and apparently now some level of concern for Sam - none of it made sense. Castiel wanted to avoid complications for Sam? He was being kind, or well, kind-er, and since Sam didn't have four legs, bleat and grow wool for a living, that was a fucking paradigm shift.

But Castiel was also just a little too on the nose, about Dean. Sam knew he was right. Putting himself in the middle of these Mysterious Issues could turn Dean against him.

But what the hell, he was making college plans right under Dean's nose, and he hadn't said no when Dean offered to involve him in his rivalry with Castiel. Sam was no patron saint of morality, and his relationship with Dean was about to tank anyway. Maybe he deserved for that to happen.

"I still want to try," Sam insisted. Time to come clean, at least on one thing; "and look, better you first, right? He offered to fill me in this weekend—"

"—and you want to feel less guilty about that," Castiel finished.

Sam cringed. Busted.

He expected a righteous outburst. Castiel had a right to be annoyed. But laughter: the big, rolling chuckles that smoothed over the road noise; that he couldn't have anticipated.

"All of that nobility must keep you up at night," Castiel said, with a warmth that made it hard to bristle.

Sam found himself laughing too, somewhere between relief and self depreciation. "You have no idea."

The quiet that followed was a contemplative one, but brief. "For a venti chai latte and directions to the best stargazing spot in Henderson County, I'll tell you everything."

"The closest Starbucks is across the river," Sam chuckled, "but sure?"

Castiel peered at the dash clock. It was just easing on towards nine-thirty. "I think we have time," he said, and turned his jeep around in the next driveway.

The drive across the Mississippi to Burlington was quiet, hypnotized by the headlights of passing cars and the mellow NPR newsreader. This new peace between them felt fragile as an egg. Sam handled it as softly as he could.

"I have one other stipulation," Castiel said quietly, as the white 'H' of the Great River Bridge appeared above the trees, marking the river that separated Illinois from Iowa, "I'm aware that I've made some uncharitable comments about your relationship with Dean. For which you were rightly angry with me."

Sam wondered if Castiel's sudden about-face meant the Apocalypse was coming tomorrow. He wrinkled his nose. "Really? 'Uncharitable?'"

"I thought that was fairly accurate."

"Accurate, yeah. I just wondered how much people actually use 'uncharitable' in conversation where you're from."

"I can use 'shitty,' if you'd prefer I stick to colloquialisms."

Sam let his head drop back with a laugh. A sudden rise of nerves made his hands and thighs tremble, and he felt unhinged; flying by the seat of his pants on an adrenaline high. Felt like he could say or do anything right now.

Unmoved, Castiel let go a deep sigh. "If I agree to… editorialize or speculate as little as possible, you agree not to interrupt or correct me. After I've finished, you're free to ask whatever questions you want," Castiel finished, after a few minutes' search for words. They rode the rise of the bridge, over the dark expanse of the Mississippi and into the city lights of Burlington. Sam gave it some thought. It sounded fair enough, although it did give rise to all sorts of wild speculations.

"Seems legit," Sam said out loud. He caught Castiel's puzzled glance and laughed again. "I meant 'okay.' That works for me."

Castiel gusted out a breath. "Okay, Sam. Good."

"You need directions to Starbucks?"

"Oh, believe me," Long-suffering exasperation colored Castiel's voice, "I know the way."

An hour later, Sam found himself in the middle of nowhere, gazing up at the Milky Way with half a caramel apple cider between his knees. Castiel, usually so taciturn, was talking in paragraphs and pages. In any other scenario, his voice might have been hypnotic. Here and now, Sam was one part fascinated to two parts squirrelly nerves. He telescoped in on Castiel's dark warmth beside him, like Sam could see Venus through him if he focused hard enough.

"Dean and I were friends first. He folded Charlie in almost as soon as they met, the same way he did with me," Castiel said, "we survived the first year of grad school together. Our parents passed away that year, too; we had no other family and Dean was there for us. That—was also the point at which I found out."

"Found out?"

There was a long hesitation. "My adoption," Castiel replied. He didn't sound any happier about it than he had the first time it came up.

Sam reached out, hesitated and withdrew, the gesture lost in the dark.

Castiel didn't notice. He took a slow sip of his chai. "I wasn't stable. I was angry—and lost. Sometimes I hated them for being dead. Sometimes I thought I deserved to go to Hell for feeling that way. I decided I could find my birth mother; as if, somehow, finding her would fix everything. So I did some digging. And," he sighed, "the records of my birth were sealed."

"Does Dean know?"

"That I'm adopted? Of course. You're not supposed to ask questions yet."

"No—I meant—never mind." Sam took a sip of his cider, just beginning to go cool on the hood of the jeep. "Sorry."

"I know sealed records can be opened - but it would cost more than I had in legal fees. Our parents left us both money, but everything that didn't go to hospice and funeral costs went towards school. I did it anyway. I picked up a third-shift job at a laundromat by the college. Dean eventually found out. So he'd come in, do some laundry, some homework, and watch reruns of a truly awful medical drama."

"Doctor Sexy, M.D.," Sam supplied, with a wry smile.

Castiel's nod was emphatic enough to hear in the dark. "Yes. Horrific."

Sam closed his eyes against the ache in his chest. This sounded like the Dean he knew. It was a relief to hear he wasn't just some rosy idealization.

"Two weeks into the job, I looked for legal counsel," Castiel went on, "with too few senses and too little cash. That was how I found Crowley Law. Which is—yes—run by a man just as unsavory as his name suggests. He liked me, I suppose; we were both young and hungry. Or else he saw someone he could manipulate. Or both. I couldn't afford his fees even with the discount he offered, but took his number and his card; and he took mine."

"At around the same time, Charlie had," Castiel paused, "trouble with a professor. One Dean admired quite a bit: Professor Dick Roman." His voice darkened. "We were all struggling to get through his class even with office hours, but Charlie— Actually, those details are private. Dean thought she was overreacting - he couldn't believe Roman would be unprofessional, let alone a predator. I tried to schedule my office hours with her. Roman refused, so I sat in the hall outside his office during her hours."

Sam sat up a little straighter, sharp dread sliding down his back like a needle.

"That didn't help as much as I hoped," Castiel said, after a deep breath, "Charlie stopped scheduling office hours. Roman's behavior towards her shifted. Charlie's papers came back with harsher critiques—and—" frustration knotted his words, "—the class was all papers. Papers are subjective. Charlie got determined; got angry. We tried to fight, but neither one of us knew what to do besides work harder. She dropped the class before the midterm, hoping to try her luck with the other professor who taught the course. I couldn't go with her; we didn't have the inheritance left. I sat in the back and passed without committing assault. Barely, on both counts."

Castiel paused for a long swallow of his chai. Sam let the silence wash over him, reconsidering everything he'd taken as truth. What happened to Charlie probably wasn't unique, any more unique than her feeling unable to defend herself. The injustice of it made his teeth clench and his fists curl. "Please tell me someone dickpunched him," he snarled.

He heard Castiel turn towards him in the dark. "Dean never told you? It caught up with him the same year, by winter break. I thought it made national news."

Sam shrugged. Maybe it had, but given the timeframe, he probably had his own nose too close to a textbook to notice.

"Close to Thanksgiving, I got a call from that lawyer, Crowley. He knew I was in the vet program at Cornell and he was building a case on Roman. Several students had experiences like Charlie's, spanning a few years. I shouldn't have done it. But I was—" Castiel trailed off.

"You told him about Charlie?" Sam asked, afraid of the answer.

"Not all of it. He was sniffing around me as a possible eyewitness first. When I mentioned her situation he offered to waive my adoption investigation fees if I convinced her to join the case," Castiel growled. "I could have murdered that Gucci-soaked fuckhat with a plastic butter knife."

Sam didn't know if 'Gucci-soaked fuckhat' referred to Crowley or Roman or both. Plenty of rage to go around. He heard the cardboard tap of Castiel's cup on the hood of the jeep, and the slide of his jeans as he pushed off the hood. The jeep's suspension bobbed as his weight left it.

"Dude," Sam said in quiet shock, "you didn't… did you?"

"I made her aware," Castiel said shortly, "Of the Roman case, not the strings attached. But Crowley wanted a high profile case. Which meant she'd be high profile. She said no."

"So fucked up," Sam grumbled. Charlie shouldn't have to worry that she'd be on trial.

Castiel's voice snarled out of the dark. "Excuse me?"

Sam's stomach bottomed out. "I meant the media circus, is fucked up," he clarified, adrenaline sharpening his panic. "Sorry, Cas."

He might have said more. He wanted to, but then, kind of couldn't. Castiel was still in his space. The edge of Sam's thoughts roamed the moment, wondering at it. He found the courage to reach out again, and this time didn't stop. His palm waved fruitlessly in the dark, before it patted softly on the slope of Castiel's shoulder.

They flinched in unison like the connection held a charge. Sam couldn't swallow around the lump of urgency in his throat. His body tensed in anticipation, coiling to spring or flee.

"Whatever happened, Charlie forgave you, right?" Sam said, out of breath like he'd run here.

"She has," Castiel replied, and Sam caught the scent of cloves on his exhale.

Then he was gone. The jeep bowed again under his weight, as he hopped up next to Sam.

Sam heard a hollow cardboard pop, then a wet splatter in the grass under their feet. Castiel cursed.

"Cas? You okay?"

"That was my chai."

A five minute scramble commenced to find the cup, wherein both Sam and Castiel put their hands squarely in chai-soaked grass. Sam passed him paper napkins from Castiel's glove box, after they'd retreated to the jeep's somewhat more comfortable front seat.

"I want you to know," Castiel said, once the papery rustling ceased, "When Charlie declined, I refused Crowley's offer. But I have no justifications. I was broke and selfish."

"Okay," Sam said with a shrug, "but what if you turned Crowley down without telling her, and it turned out that she would have said yes? I'm not gonna pretend considering that offer was okay, but joining the case or not was her decision, right? You respected it."

"Of course. But whether or not it was her choice had very little bearing on my motivations at the time."

"Yeah, you're kind of an arrogant, vengeful prick, news at eleven," Sam's voice was dry. "You ever clue her in on all this stuff?"

"I did. You're still not abiding by the rules."

Sam chuckled and sucked off the dregs of his cider. "Yeah, because you're making me. How does Dean figure into all this? Does he know or something?"

Castiel was suddenly all restlessness. "He knows his version, which is, of course, all that matters," he said sharply, and hoisted himself out the driver's side window. Sam, after a shocked second, followed suit.

"What are we, the _Dukes of Hazzard_?" Sam asked across the roof, with a laugh.

"Claustrophobic," Castiel muttered, then added in a sly tone, sharing Sam's laughter, "Plus, I've always wanted to do that."

The story rolled forward again, a little smoother now, like the first part had been stuck in Castiel's craw. Dean still wasn't aware of Charlie's issues with Professor Roman, as far as Castiel knew. He'd already been suspicious of Castiel's phone calls at the laundromat, of the missed calls and voicemails from a 'Crowley' on Castiel's caller ID. After Castiel refusal to participate, the case against Roman went forward within a week. Lurid headlines splattered all over the country. Professor Roman received administrative leave. He escaped conviction, but Crowley's reputation - in certain definitions of the word, at least - was made.

"Dean blames me," Castiel said, "for attempting to ruin Roman's career."

"For what?" Sam blurted. "A couple missed calls means you helped Crowley and a dozen women - including Charlie - cook up a fake case? That doesn't sound like Dean."

Castiel groaned. "Sam, I heard the accusations. He made his opinions very clear."

"But you and Charlie could have set that straight in a second. I mean, he's a suspicious jerk sometimes, but you were friends! Plus something still doesn't add up. How did he even know who Crowley was? Didn't that guy make his reputation after the case?"

"I don't know." Castiel's voice hardened, "I don't owe him an explanation; neither does Charlie."

"And you never told him? He has no idea? About the adoption records, or the offer, or why Charlie dropped the class, or any of it?"

"It's Charlie's story and choice," Castiel repeated firmly, "you asked for my part, which I told you. Even if I did feel inclined to enlighten Dean, do you believe it would make a difference?" He slid back into the cab. "I'm ready to go back to the clinic. We're fortunate we haven't had a call."

Covering his disappointment, Sam agreed. He withdrew for the ride home, still simmering, but couldn't let it go.

"I don't get this," Sam blurted, as they climbed out of the jeep in the clinic parking lot. "It's pretty obvious that you were close to Dean. It's also pretty obvious he's been crappy to you. You have a right to be angry. But the way I see it, you didn't do anything wrong, so why wouldn't you set the record straight now that you have the chance?"

"Exactly, why would I?"

"Because he was your friend!"

"I was only ever his friend on his terms, Sam." Castiel dropped a duffel back on the ground with a soft puff of dust.

Sam huffed, and came at it from another tack. "All right. Dean's a judgmental dick. But he's your sister's business partner. He's not going away. Don't you guys need some resolution to all this? Do you really think you can spend your whole lives avoiding each other?"

Castiel stared at him through the open door of the jeep. "It's Charlie's story," he repeated, growling.

"So you're gonna put this whole feud on Charlie." Sam swatted the passenger door shut, hoisted equipment duffels on his shoulder, and tried to control his breathing on the way to the clinic. His adrenaline was through the roof, body buzzing like he'd been hooked to a battery.

Castiel stopped him at the door. "Go home, Sam."

"I'm on the clock," Sam replied, and charged past him.

Castiel followed, pulling the door closed behind him. He switched on the lobby lights and fixed Sam with a look halfway between shark and a shotgun laser sight. "Why are you suddenly my advocate, Sam? What's in this for you?"

That brought Sam up short. He'd been reacting off the cuff since guilt prodded him to open the topic. He didn't have the full story - in fact, all he had at this point was Castiel's side of the story. If anything, he should be skeptical. Dean would insist Castiel was an opportunist and a liar. "Me? What's in it for you?" Sam volleyed the question, "You shut me down the minute you realized Dean was my brother. Now you're volunteering your life story for a coffee."

"And a stargazing spot," Castiel corrected, expression softening. He was still looking hard at Sam, in a way that made his insides flip.

"Yeah. Okay. So what? What gives?"

Castiel put his equipment duffels on the lobby counter like they held winestems. "It began to bother me," he said, and his eyes dropped, "How you thought of me."

Sam's heart kicked him in the ribs. "Really?" He laughed, nerves lighting up like the New Jersey power grid, "Since when has anyone's opinion ever cost you any sleep?"

With a tentative gait, Castiel shifted towards him. "Not often," he admitted, studying the floor, "you're the first person whose company I've enjoyed this much in a very long time, Sam."

Sam started to dissemble. He got about a syllable in before Castiel looked up at him again, and a connection that hadn't been there before was all wired up now, plugged in and surging a thousand hot volts. Sam didn't like to call things 'lightning strikes' unless they came somewhere in the vicinity of that. When he got the gist of things, the bright clap of it made his heart rear up and hammer away until it roared in his ears.

Yeah. Lightning covered it.

But he was reading too much into it. 'I enjoy your company enough to be less of a dick to you,' wasn't some passionate admission of whatever. Plus it was late, Sam thought, and this whole night had been fragile. Castiel could mean anything by that statement, and nothing. No matter what, Sam wasn't about to get overexcited. Hell, he was annoyed that any part of him - conscious or otherwise - got excited at all.

"Um. Thank you? Cas, I'm sorry it bothered you. I don't think badly of you," Sam said.

The words were missing something important. Sam knew it, too late to do anything about it.

So did Castiel. He looked past Sam, then stepped away from him with an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Ah. Thank you, Sam. I appreciate your generosity."

It would have been nice if the phone rang, right about now.

Instead, Sam found himself in the back, unpacking duffel bags and nursing his galloping heart alone.


	9. Chapter 9

By the time Sam dragged himself out of bed on Saturday morning, his evening plans had already been made. Cheerful seven AM group texts from Charlie and Dorothy announced a movie night at Charlie's place, which would be the promised pizza and movie night if Sam joined them. The texts came simultaneously. A lesser man might have made inferences. Sam preferred to wait for cold hard facts.

Cold hard facts came minutes later, in the form of a tousled selfie from Dorothy. Her fighter pilot's grin glowed in the foreground; sheepish Charlie leaning over her shoulder. Sam smiled back at them, and shook his head with an exasperated huff. For someone so determined to avoid drama, he was doing the fucking backstroke in it.

Office romance Switzerland, he reminded himself, with more sarcasm than intent; sent a good morning and a yes back, and managed to lag upstairs - thereby avoiding Dean - another fifteen minutes.

Dean waggled the carton of eggs as Sam finally slumped into the kitchen. "Mornin', Sunshine," Dean said with a grin, unaware that his presence triggered a loop of last night's awkward highlights.

"Uh. Scrambled? Thanks," Sam said. He poured himself a cup of coffee and dropped into a chair, trying not to think about Castiel.

Dean slid him a plate of buttered toast and folded back the egg carton lid. "Welcome back to the land of the living. How'd it go?"

So much for that. "Slow. Just one call," Sam said, around a mouthful of toast.

Over the clatter of his whisk, Dean whistled. "And you're not crazy yet?"

Every thought of Castiel, even the arguments, triggered a fresh wave of frustrated butterflies. "Jury's still out on that," Sam replied with a short laugh, "but I restocked your gear." He slouched over his coffee, avoiding Dean's eyes.

The whisking stopped, replaced by the high hiss of the burner, and the scrape of Dean's spoon. A waiting quiet dropped over the kitchen.

"Okay," Dean said, dropping the steaming plate of eggs in front of Sam, "I know that face. You didn't eat my Oreos or drink my IPA, so hit me with it."

You want Door Number One, Sam thought; Door Number Two, or spin the Wheel of Dirty Lies? God, he wasn't sure what to blame the guilt on anymore. In the future, he needed to keep the secrets down to one, or start a liar's Post-It wall. "What?" he said, smoothing his expression to what he hoped was innocence, "I wouldn't drink that beer if you paid me."

Dean shot him a skeptical look. "No taste," he said sadly, shaking his head, "If I wanted 'malty,' I'd eat a loaf of bread."

"The only reason to drink IPA is if you hate yourself," Sam shot back, "and if I hated myself that much, I'd drink scotch."

"Even pretentious about your self-loathing, Sammy, nice."

"So unpretentious self-loathing must be 'spending four bucks on crappy beer.'"

"Whatever, eat your eggs," Dean commanded, leaning back with his own mug of coffee, "you got some mail, yesterday. Katie says Dizzy's still doing okay. Acting like she didn't just have a dirty antifreeze martini."

Sam's stomach dropped. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. From Cornell? I almost opened it; figured it was the alumni, wanting money again."

"Bet it's just junk mail. Recruiter stuff," Sam improvised with a shrug, hoping that was actually a thing. Nothing should have come so soon. He'd signed up for a couple email lists though—had he given them his address?

Dean gave him a measuring look. "You thinking about being recruited?"

"Maybe some day," Sam laughed uneasily, "it's not like I've got the time or the money for that, right?"

After another uncomfortable silence, Dean got up from the table. "Right," he said, and if he sounded unconvinced Sam couldn't risk another look to check.

Sam scooped the eggs into his mouth until his panic-lined stomach started to rebel. He got away from the table as quick as he could, outrunning the split that widened with the silence. "You uh, wanna go for a run this morning?" Sam called over his shoulder on the way to the door.

"And get left in the dust?" Dean shouted back.

"I don't have to—" Sam winced and edited, "I wouldn't. Come on, Dean."

"Thanks, Terminator, I'll pass."

The space under Sam's breastbone felt hollow. He rubbed it as he slipped outside, and squatted on the front stairs to tie his sneakers.

On the step beside him, his phone lit up and jingled. Castiel, who'd apparently read his mind.

> _Headed out for 3K+. Interested?_

No, Sam thought.

Because saying yes made the guilt shove its way up his throat like the flu.

Because saying yes was the truth. Yes, he was interested. Yes, he wanted.

Castiel wanted to run with him. Castiel, per his own words last night, liked being around Sam. And that made so little sense, Sam was inclined to be suspicious, but it was hard to say no to even the illusion of being liked. Sam cradled his phone in both hands, thumbs up as he wavered between anger and hope and the ever-present, exhausting guilt.

_Yes,_ he typed, erased it; typed _sorry, can't_ and erased again. He was still staring at a blinking cursor when Dean dropped next to him like a sack of bricks.

"Okay, Seabiscuit," Dean stuck the headphone jack into his mp3 player, "ready to get owned?"

Sam covered his cellphone with a start. He scrubbed at his face like he could rub off the relief and the disappointment, and answered with a lame laugh. "Really? You want to come?"

"Well, I'm not doing it for my health," Dean bounded off the steps.

Sam flipped his phone over again and texted Castiel quickly:

> _Maybe next time?_

He vaulted down the sidewalk and hurried to catch up.

They didn't talk, which was fine. Sam matched Dean's pace and tried to leave everything else by the roadside. Shade dappled the gravel road in front of Bobby's old house, tossing flashes of gold across Sam's vision as wind moved the trees. Their footsteps thudded in the powdery ruts, raising puffs of gravel dust. Late spring heat came on, creeping green scent of humidity filling Sam's head. He took deep breaths, filling his lungs to the bottom, and grabbed the uncomplicated joy in a double handhold. It seemed like forever since they were going in the same direction, metaphorically or otherwise.

The smell of the river met them, spoiled and fishy, a quarter mile before the water came into view. Iowa wasn't visible from here, hidden behind a tangle of muddy islands and blooming honey locusts. Barges traveled the main channel, but here the river seemed smooth as a millpond.

Except for one lone swimmer. His back and shoulders broke the water, sending orange ripples pulsing back to shore.

"The hell? Who is that?" Dean blurted. Nobody swam here besides the occasional teenager on a dare. God knew what junk lurked out in the shallows and the soft sucking mud. It was tetanus waiting to happen, or worse.

Sam pulled up short and cast a glance down towards the old boat ramp—and spotted an unmistakable lemon yellow jeep. Crowned with moon lamps, blue stripes clawed down its flanks, it waited patiently by the water's edge with a pile of neatly folded clothes on the hood.

Sam froze. "Cas?"

As if he'd heard, Castiel touched bottom and stood up, waist deep in dark water. They looked at one another. Recognition poured over Sam's skin in a warm summer flood.

"That's _Cas?_ Holy shit." Dean shaded his eyes. "It is."

Castiel turned away again, stroking in the opposite direction like the river was a city pool.

"Hope he's up to date on his shots," Dean muttered, and shook his head. Sam joined him and they picked up their route again, passing Castiel's jeep.

"We could hide his pants," Dean suggested, voice full of mischief.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Are you twelve?"

With a disgusted noise, Dean let the opportunity slide. He charged forward, leaving Sam in a fine haze of dust. By the time Sam caught up, Dean was walking again, gasping and sweating. "Okay," Dean panted, "That's enough running for one year."

Sam handed him the bottle of water he'd carried along. "Yeah, that was a heck of a show," he said, not bothering to edit the sarcasm.

Dean snatched the water bottle. "Just tired of that guy," He sucked at the cap between hard breaths. "Look, I'm being an asshole, I know, okay? I mean, whatever, I should get over it. But I didn't think I'd ever have to see him again. Then I go on a jog with my baby brother, and bam. Turns up like a bad penny."

"He's Charlie's brother," Sam offered warily, with words that echoed uncomfortably out of the night before, "he was gonna be unavoidable."

Dean's hands linked behind his own neck, curling his body down around itself. He shook it off and shoved out his chest. "Yeah, tell me something I don't know."

Sam flinched. An apology crowded up his throat, more out of reflex than real intent. Just fucking sorry. Sorry for everything, all the time. Sorry for existing. The big red button lit up, pulsing like a vein in his neck. "How about you do that," Sam snapped.

Dean eyed him sideways. "Come again?"

The question cornered Sam, secrets crowding around him. The thought of doing the morning's dance around the truth all over again made him feel sick. "How about you tell him something he doesn't know? You guys talk about each other more than you ever just talk."

"What bullshit sob story is he telling now?" Dean pounced.

Sam rolled his eyes a second time. "Can you stow your crap for five minutes and treat him like a person? Instead of the Two-Face to your Batman?"

"I don't know, how about when he stops being two-faced?"

They walked in lockstep, silent and fuming. The heat was a mallet on Sam's head. Confessions swarmed in his chest and he wanted to run; run hard until Dean vanished in his dust.

"I didn't come out with you to pick a fight," Dean muttered, "hell, I don't even like to run."

"Then why did you?"

Dean's head bobbed, like the words were hard to cough up. "I was harsh, at the clinic. I was out of line. It bugs me. This night shift thing."

"And it's over," Sam declared.

Dean huffed. "Yeah. I know. But real talk for a second: it's not, is it?"

Another quarter mile went by, curves of the road leading inescapably home. Sam pried his hands out of fists. "What do you want me to say, Dean?"

"Anything," Dean retorted with a shrug. "I don't know what's going on with you anymore."

Sam stopped. "You want to know what's going on with me? Fine. Stop giving me the third degree whenever I'm doing something you didn't pre-approve. Give me the benefit of the doubt, instead of treating my friends like serial killers."

"'Friends,' meaning Cas," Dean challenged.

The warning signs blazed in Sam's mind. He ignored them. The words poured out in a euphoric rush. "Yeah. He's a jerk but it's not like that's a new thing for me, right? After you made a scene for the fiftieth time about how dangerous he is, I asked him why. He told me."

Dean's voice flattened like a cornered cougar. "Yeah, I bet he did. I bet he's got a great story cooked up by now. Bet he didn't tell you everything about the sleazy douchebag of a lawyer he hired. He probably wants to leave that part out."

"Crowley," Sam snarled, "And yeah, he told me about him. But the thing I want to know is - how do _you_ know about Crowley? You seem to know an awful lot about the guy, considering how you read Cas the riot act without giving him the benefit of the doubt, either."

"Really? Really? You're on his side now?"

"How am I supposed to be on your side when you won't even give me a good reason to believe you?" Sam's words escalated into shouts.

Dean's mouth hung open. "I'm your _family_. That's not good enough anymore?"

Reality slammed down onto Sam, the shock of what he'd said - and Dean's answer - driving away every other thought. He backed away, not trusting himself. "I didn't say that! Crap like this, Dean. This is why I don't talk to you anymore!"

Dean stepped into Sam, until their chests nearly bumped. "You wanna know about the guy? _Fine_. You remember I tended bar through grad school, right? This ritzy hotel bar; only locals ever came in were hookers and rich assholes. Crowley was one of them."

Sam stepped back again, throwing an arm between himself and Dean. "Okay, so what?"

"I'm not done," Dean snapped back with a glare, "He talked about the corporate bigwigs his firm got paid big bucks to represent. All the ways he's helping these guys dodge everything from tax fraud to murder one. I think it's all crap, but I listen because he tips big. Then he disappears. Shows up like, six months later and he's—I don't know, hungrier. The firm kicked him to the curb and he's trying to make a name for himself on his own. Right about then, Cas starts getting calls from him all the time. In the middle of the freaking night—"

"It wasn't all the time," Sam broke in.

"I don't remember seeing you there? All of a sudden Crowley's got this harassment lawsuit. Says there's a bunch of girls on the hook to crucify this big shot professor. The same professor who intimidated Charlie so much, she dropped his class halfway through the semester. Did he tell you that?"

The missing pieces of Castiel's story clicked into place. "You think Castiel lied to Crowley and risked his school career - not to mention perjury - to get revenge?"

"He was working with _Crowley_ , what more proof do you need?"

"Seriously? The best your 'proof' can do is show motive and that they knew each other. No wonder Cas never tried to explain."

"Explain? Explain what? About the grad student Crowley had in on the gig, trying to get his sister on board? How are you this blind? ...Are you fucking him? Please tell me it's not because you're _fuck_ —"

Dean's teeth snapped shut as Sam shoved him. Adrenaline ran too high for Sam to get the drop on him, but he staggered back a step, outrage and pain writ large on his face. He poked two fingers in his mouth and pulled them out red: he'd bitten his tongue. Both men stared at the blood in horror, then at each other.

Sam bolted. He didn't stop running until his butt landed in the seat of his pickup.

Dean's face slid past Sam's windows as he peeled out of the driveway. He called to Sam, muffled and panting, reaching towards the truck with open hands.

Sam opened his text messages one-handed; swept his thumb across Castiel's name. The phone dialed; rang twice before he hung up and tossed his phone across the seat of the truck. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm and stomped the accelerator.

The yellow jeep was still parked on the boat ramp. Castiel leaned on the front bumper, a towel on his bare shoulders, dark hair spiky from the water. His phone was in his hands, and his name illuminated Sam's lock screen as Sam braked the pickup with a wheal of pea gravel at the river's edge. Sam ignored it, and threw himself out of the truck. He stalked up to Castiel, the smell of sunscreen radiant on his skin.

"Sam?" Castiel asked.

Sam halted, too many words crowding his throat. Too many ideas, none of them good, all of them scary.

The puzzled blue eyes were on him, searching him, worried about him. Every reassuring smile he tried was dead on arrival.

God he was bad at this. He should go home.

He couldn't go home.

For a split second, Sam wanted to die.

Castiel's confusion smoothed away, replaced by an expression Sam couldn't read.

He watched Castiel come towards him. Cool fingers found his, brushed his wrist, feather light and asking.

Sam took one deep breath, of coconut sunscreen and river, and dove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never had IPA (India Pale Ale), it's what the beer aficionados like to call 'extra hoppy.' That's beer aficionado speak for 'bitter af with a hefty alcohol content.'


	10. Chapter 10

Sam knew what he was doing. This sort of bullshit had consequences. Things Sam - until he took off for the boat ramp - wanted to avoid.

He was in deep now for sure. Nothing to grab and anchor to but a stranger's hands.

Hands that gentled frightened horses were on him now, tangled in his hair as Castiel kissed him. His lips stroked Sam's in a soft rhythm, until Sam's breath slowed to match. Quiet settled over him, drawing the curtain between Sam and the rest of the world.

The moment seemed to have the opposite effect on Castiel. His hands fidgeted on Sam's neck, trembling. His breath trembled too, in gasps spilled on Sam's lips and touched off hot fireworks in his belly. Wanting something of his own to hold onto, Sam threw an arm around Castiel's back and towed him in.

Wherever Sam touched him - and he was just getting started - he was _solid_. Warm and alive and solid underneath the skin. Sam clung to that, letting Castiel's mouth slip away in the urgency to hang on. And that, apparently, was fine. Castiel tucked his face into Sam's neck and wound his arm around the other side, and let himself be held.

"I don't understand," Castiel muttered, his voice thrumming on Sam's skin in a way that sent more prickles of arousal down his spine, "After last night; after—"

Sam puffed a breath of embarrassed laughter. "I thought you didn't even _like_ me. Wasn't—uh," He looked down. "Wasn't sure what you were going to do, when I got here."

"That's anything but the reality." Castiel's fingers stroked the nape of Sam's neck. "I'm sorry, Sam. I like you. I want you."

The last words were quiet, practically subsonic, but Sam felt them in his throat, and in the heat suffusing his belly. He nibbled his lip, the ghost of Castiel's mouth still kissing him there.

"I'm not good at this," Castiel muttered, and pulled back, "but—can we go? Somewhere?"

Even while his body screamed oh, hell yes; Sam's defenses slammed down in fear. An old fear, born behind high school football stadiums and in the corner booths of strange diners. In the shadow of his father. "Not my place," he said by reflex, and winced at the confusion in Castiel's eyes. That confusion made him reevaluate. Made him breathe.

"Dean's home," Sam explained, eyes closed to miss whatever might be in Castiel's eyes at the mention, "Anywhere else, though, yeah. Please?" he quirked a smile in apology, and looked up again.

The glow in Castiel's eyes at that was so alien, Sam almost didn't recognize it.

Joy.

"Follow me."

Five minutes later, Sam followed the sunny yellow tailgate out of town. He felt jumpy and unfinished, behind the wheel of his own truck alone with no destination ahead but the promise of Castiel's body. The smell of him still clung to Sam; his lips felt skinned by kisses.

Not for the first time, Sam thought: God, what am I doing?

Up ahead, the yellow jeep swung a hard right, down a rutted, overgrown dirt access road along the edge of an irrigation ditch. Charlie's farmhouse was only another half mile down the highway they'd just left; this road weaved through the hills and timber behind her land. Sam turned to follow before he could come to his senses. Or fear, or whatever urged him back home. Field vanished behind woods as the trees thickened, filling both sides of the road, swabbing out any glimpse of the highway behind them.

A few minutes later, the road opened up into a round meadow, a circle of stones and ashy bare dirt in the middle.

Sam jumped down into the grass, casting a wondering glance at the meadow. "Charlie's been holding out on me. I didn't know this was here."

Castiel pulled a thick, worn green blanket out of the back of his jeep. He folded it over his arm and stepped up to meet Sam with a grin. "Because she doesn't know it's here. My sister is many things. Outdoorsy is not one."

Sam relaxed as Castiel's free arm wrapped around his waist. Contact was still new and shocky, but desire hadn't changed Castiel; hadn't put a slink in his step or softened his voice. He was still exactly who he'd been before Sam kissed him. It reassured him. His inner cynic expected to meet a stranger when they stopped.

"Is this all right, Sam?" Castiel was asking. He nudged Sam's side with the blanket on his arm, and gestured to the meadow. "I'm sorry, I'm—"

Sam swooped down, cutting him off with a kiss that - he hoped - was the affirmation Castiel needed. The blanket thudded into the knee-high grass as Castiel reached for him with both hands.

The sunwarm fender of the jeep met Sam's palm as he pinned Castiel against it. A laughing growl met him there, rumbling from Castiel's chest to Sam's like a ready storm. When he pushed Castiel onto the hood by the hips, Castiel helped, latching onto Sam's shoulders without skipping a beat - and without letting go of his mouth. He dove down with every kiss, pushing harder, moving deeper, hands and arms hiding Sam's head in their embrace. He tasted like saltwater and metal; warm gusts of panted breaths spilling into Sam's mouth.

God, Sam felt wanted. A little dusty but bright as chrome, the memory of how that felt hummed through his core like a night train, rattling every sleepy desire out of bed. It woke the greedy animal in him too, who howled.

Sam snatched the green blanket from the ground and joined Castiel on the hood. He spread it over the hot metal, spread Castiel against it—and promptly found himself on his back. There was that laugh again, hungry and purring, private in a way that made Sam's belly clench.

He lost Castiel in the sun. Light poured hot on his chest and cheeks like the eager mouth on his stomach; the hands that peeled him out of his clothes. Sam found him again by feel, stroking what skin came in reach. He followed Castiel's voice and breath, seeing nothing but rosy gold behind his closed eyelids. Surer hands found his and laced their fingers together. Sam's throat closed, the hollow in his chest suddenly full.

Castiel rose over him again, cool shadow brushing Sam's face like a benediction. Sam looked up with sunwashed eyes; caught Castiel's in the white-out world and grinned at him. Castiel pinned one hand down to the blanket, light and firm, and let the other go. Tender fingertips trailed up Sam's naked thighs, making a slow trek north to the—Sam's brain stuttered at the inevitable 'pole' reference, and he laughed. It had to be the Equator; maybe not in the middle of him but fucking hot enough. Sam gasped, keeping his eyes on Castiel's, which flared and darkened at the contact. He bent down, mouthing Sam's lips with a laziness betrayed by quick breath, as he explored the softness between Sam's legs.

Pleasure drove up Sam's spine and wrapped his senses, blurring everything outside the moment. Nothing else existed. Not the consequences of sex with a coworker, not Sam's murky future, not the yawning rift between himself and Dean. For a few minutes the world felt infinitely fixable. The sun whited out the corners of Sam's vision again; narrowed it to a hot yellow hood, acres of soft green blanket that clung to his sweaty legs, Castiel's weight and gentle hands.

It went on forever, and then over too fast.

Sam sprawled under Castiel's weight, wrung out and panting against his ear. He'd do it all over again if he could, but he needed a nap too. And out of the sun. His skin smarted a little now, hypersensitive and probably burnt.

In his defense, he hadn't planned to be outside this late in the day.

Or naked.

Sam ran his fingertips down the curve of Castiel's back and earned himself an arching hiss. Castiel's hips bucked into his thigh.

"This is hot," Sam whispered into Castiel's ear, grinning at the soft gasp it elicited, "but let's find some shade for the next part, Cas."

"Of course" Castiel lifted his head and glanced down at Sam's chest, concern creasing his brow, "you're burned."

"Yeah. Price of admission, I guess? I'd say 'worth it,' but,"

"Melanoma is not 'worth it,'" Castiel answered, "I want a shower, anyway. My place?"

He rolled over, sliding off the driver's side of the hood and leaving Sam's hands grasping at empty air. With a grunt, Sam followed. He pulled Castiel's back against his chest, palming his stomach.

"In a minute?" Sam muttered, ghosting his lips against Castiel's ear a second time. Hey, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

The response was dramatic. Castiel melted into Sam, tossing an arm over his head to catch one shoulder and squeeze. He tossed his head back with a slow, shuddering exhale.

"Please," Castiel groaned, stretching the word out until one syllable became several; until it was nearly a purr.

Reaching back, Sam snatched the blanket from the hood and tossed it in the shadow of the jeep. The grass crunched under their weight, nestling out a secret spot in the high weeds as Sam spread Castiel out on his back again - and this time, stayed.

The river was still on Castiel's skin, earthy, mingling with sunscreen and body scent as Sam brushed kisses down his belly. Dark curls dusted the soft spot just above his groin. It felt vulnerable there; erotic. Sam nuzzled it, combed through the hair with his fingertips, grinning at the way Castiel's breath puffed out, freight train fast. Taken out of control, Castiel ran with the throttle wide open. He rolled his hips, arched his back, breathed Sam's name like a prayer. His fingers stroked restlessly up and down the back of Sam's neck, a pantomime of what he probably did to himself. When the fingers sped up, so did Sam.

Castiel came with his toes curling and his fingers digging into Sam's shoulders, and Sam felt like a hot shit fucking ace. He was Iceman, going down on Maverick in the cockpit of an F-16, in a fantasy where fighter jet cockpits were magically big enough for sex. Sam knew of one or two cockpits big enough, right here and now and no pilot's license necessary; he made a couple long range plans with Castiel's thighs still practically clamped around his head.

He brought it up in the panting aftermath, with his head on Castiel's belly. Castiel's head was in the grass; slipped right off the edge of the blanket somewhere in the middle of everything.

Sex in the jeep sounded like a fabulous idea to Castiel. Or the pickup. Or sex anywhere, actually. The general consensus seemed to be yes, please and thank you, which Sam could get behind. And underneath, and inside, and everything else.

Sam caught his breath, body cooling as a breeze worked through the long grass. For the first time in a couple hours, he wondered what he was going to do now.

He thought about Dean. His good mood curdled.

"I should go home," Sam muttered.

"Oh." Castiel's fingers moved idly in Sam's hair. "Of course. Would it be possible to see you tonight?"

The question startled Sam. With a grimace, he remembered the invitation he'd accepted from Charlie and Dorothy. "I think I have plans. Involving a season of _Due South_ and half a pepperoni pizza."

"Sounds riveting," Castiel answered, voice dry, "Charlie's get together?"

"Yeah. I was looking forward to it this morning, before—" Sam waved a hand, index finger tracing a circle to indicate the general area of the blanket.

Castiel laughed. "Perhaps she won't mind if I join you, then. I know absolutely nothing about—what was it?"

" _Due South_?"

"Yes. That. It's a risk I'm willing to take."

Sam sat up. "Not that I'm complaining - I'm not, honestly," he blurted, pushing his fingers through his hair, "I just—still don't get it. A couple weeks ago, I could have sworn you hated me. Now you want to eat pizza, drink beer, and watch tv with me?"

Castiel's eyes flashed with concern. "That might have been an issue to bring up _before_ the sex, Sam."

It was hard to tell the blush apart from the sunburn at this point. Sam rubbed his forehead and winced at the hypersensitive skin. "I know. I just—" He trailed off, not sure how to finish.

Castiel touched Sam's foot. "It's all right."

Somewhere not too far away, an ATV crashed through the trees, humming like a swarm of angry wasps. Castiel sat up, eyes on the line of locusts and maples. The engine noise echoed into the meadow and dopplered away.

Castiel sighed. "I know you need to go. I won't keep you."

Sam got to his feet and gathered up their clothes from the other side of the jeep, feeling more naked now than he had twenty minutes ago, sprawled on the hood like a twelve point buck. Of course he'd gone and ruined it. Why did he have to poke it? Why was it so hard to believe this was real?

"Sam?" Castiel called out, burrs in his voice. When Sam came back with his pants, he found Castiel wrapped in the blanket, standing awkwardly by the driver's side door.

"I changed," Castiel said. His eyes flitted to Sam, and away. "I've never been good at this. But I would like to prove myself. If you would allow me."

The fierce determination in his expression was a little unnerving. Like dating Sam was the new Crusades. Yeah, Sam thought with the beginnings of a helpless smile, you really aren't good at this.

Neither was Sam, to be honest. Besides, if he was using words like 'dating' in reference to Castiel, he was as good as doomed.

"Yeah," Sam said after a thick swallow, and felt a little lighter for it, "here's your pants."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen the illustrations that go with each chapter, [you can find them here](http://jazzforthecaptain.tumblr.com/tagged/field+work+wednesday).


	11. Chapter 11

Sam rolled into the driveway as late afternoon sun drew sharp shadows across the front porch. Dean's pickup was still in its spot; a good sign or a bad one, depending on your perspective. Reminding himself that he lived here too, and that sneaking in like a runaway wasn't necessary, Sam climbed out of the truck. He had some apologizing to do - but nothing to hide. Ish. Good. Go with that. Maybe the sunburn would earn him pity points. Hopefully Dean wouldn't ask for an explanation.

The house was quiet when he stepped into the mudroom. Too quiet. Sam dropped his wallet and keys on the kitchen table, just for the sake of a little noise. "Dean?"

There was no answer.

Sam traipsed up the stairs and leaned into Dean's room. The bedcovers were tousled, a book open facedown at the foot. Some sort of mythology encyclopedia; Bobby left them a library's worth of occult books. There was a noticeable lack of Dean in the room, however, and Sam moved on. A low current of dread grew as the silence persisted. Sam's imagination furnished a dead or unconscious Dean around every corner he turned. He'd only bit his tongue; he wasn't bleeding _that_ bad when Sam left, right?

A few minutes later, on his second trip through the kitchen, Sam caught the clang of metal on metal coming from the backyard. He pushed aside the curtain over the sink and peered out.

Freed from its blue tarp for the first time since last fall, Bobby's old 1969 Camaro sat in the middle of the backyard with its hood up. Dean bent over the engine block, a new air filter next to his elbow in its orange box. His tools lay out on the ancient, splintery picnic table a few feet away.

Sam's heart dropped back into the proper place. He huffed a sigh at his own stupidity, backed away from the window and marched resolutely upstairs. The car was Dean's sanctuary; Sam didn't like to interrupt him when he tinkered with it. He'd loved John Winchester's Chevy Impala, but walking away from Dad meant leaving the car behind too. God knew where it was - where either of them were.

If only Dean could see the points of intersection. Kids with missing dads seemed to be a recurring theme with the people in Sam and Dean's life. Even Bobby hadn't liked to talk about his old man, although the shadows lurking around that topic died with him. Castiel lost one father and never knew the other. Dean could understand how that went, as well as Sam could. Sweeping the soap bar gingerly over his hot pink chest, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and closed down the train of thought. He couldn't fix that. He shouldn't try - not that he could honestly call today's confrontation with Dean 'trying.'

But something didn't add up, now that he thought about it. Castiel's story. His birth father died a couple weeks ago; obviously Castiel knew. But he'd turned Crowley down.

He could have found his parents after the debacle with Dean, with a different lawyer. Or with Crowley. Either way, it was reasonable to believe Castiel picked up the case later. Plenty of time to get the documents unsealed.

All the same, it left a question mark in the story he'd been pretty happy to take at face value. Where had all his healthy skepticism gone?

He swept a hand down his face and shivered as his fingers brushed too-sensitive lips. Yeah, Sam knew _exactly_ where his skepticism went. And he'd picked a fight with Dean about it, on top of that. There went the moral high ground - not that Sam with his volume of secrets even had a moral stepstool at this point.

As if summoned by Sam's thoughts, Dean knocked on the bathroom door. "Yo, Sammy? Can I come in a minute?

Sam realized he'd just been standing in the hot water, idly washing his stomach for the last five minutes. He reached for the shampoo with a wince. "Yeah?"

Cool air stole into the shower as Dean opened the door. Sam saw the shadow of him through the curtain, leaning over the bathroom sink. The taps turned on and Sam's shower got a fraction cooler than before. "Needed the Lava soap," Dean explained, "the Camaro's a dirty bitch."

"I bet," Sam laughed uneasily, "no problem. Uh. I'm sorry about this morning. Are you okay?"

"Not gonna be eating potato chips for a couple days, but yeah, I'm okay," Dean said.

"Look I'm—"

"Don't worry about it, Sam. I had it coming, you know? I'm kind of glad you left. Gave me some time to think. I know it was a shitty thing to say."

The taps turned off; the showerhead was back at full power, pelting Sam with hot water.

"Okay, I'm done. Gonna go," Dean announced.

"Hang on," Sam asked. He saw the dark shape of Dean turn back, just shy of the door. Swallowing his heart down for like the third time today, Sam pushed on. "You didn't have it coming. I lost it, I lost control."

"You got a short fuse, so what? So did Dad."

Gutted, Sam clamped his eyes shut. "That's not an excuse, Dean. I'm sorry. Doesn't matter what started it."

A long pause followed, while Sam struggled with his guilt and Dean - he assumed - struggled to find a way to shrug it off or justify it. Nobody was winning that fight, so Sam shoved on to the next topic.

"I'm not—I'm not on Castiel's side, Dean. I—"

Dean cut him off. "I don't wanna talk about him anymore, it's been a good day."

"No. Let me finish."

"Sammy—"

"It was wrong. Me jumping in to defend him. It was wrong. You guys seem to have a lot in common and yeah, I want you to have that again. But you were right - I wasn't there. It's not my fight. I took sides and I'm sorry. Whatever's going on, I'm on your side, Dean."

Silence met Sam from the other side of the curtain. The hot water started to go cold of its own accord, but he didn't quite dare climb out of the shower yet.

"You think he's changed?" Dean asked, suddenly.

Sam looked up at the ceiling. "I don't know."

"You trust him, though." It was a definitive statement, not a question.

Sam flushed all over again, blaming the gooseflesh rising along his arms on the cooling water. "He's a lot like you, to be honest, so—I think so. Look, if you want my advice - you guys could stand to talk about whatever happened. Someplace neutral."

With a noncommittal noise, Dean tossed his hands, the motion visible from Sam's side of the shower curtain. "I'll think about it, okay? You ever gonna get out of there? We get charged by the gallon, asshole."

"I would if you'd _leave_!"

Dean snatched up the ancient rubber duck on the counter and chucked it over the curtain rod. It squeaked as it glanced off of Sam's shoulder, leaving a stinging imprint behind on his sunburned skin. "I'm going! I'm going!" Dean laughed, and left the bathroom.


	12. Chapter 12

Saturday night found Sam slouched amid a sea of pizza boxes, too distracted by the pressure of Castiel's thigh to pay attention to the television.

Agreeing to this may have been a tactical error.

He and Castiel had a corner of Charlie's sectional to themselves, while Charlie and Dorothy sprawled on the opposite side. As far as Sam knew, neither of them had been clued into the tectonic shift between Castiel and himself. They should have talked about that ahead of time. It wasn't like Sam was ready to change his relationship status on Facebook or anything. If he did, he'd change it to 'it's complicated,' because that was closer to the truth even if it qualified as Understatement of the Year. Less than six hours ago, they were having sex on top of Castiel's jeep. Yeah. No. That might qualify as a relationship to some people, but Sam wasn't that optimistic.

Not that he wouldn't like it to happen again. Given how hard it was to breathe with Castiel's body heat bleeding through Sam's jeans, yeah, he'd even go so far as to say he really wanted that to happen again. His body wanted it even sooner, apparently. At this rate, he'd have to jam an icy beer bottle between his legs or hold an empty pizza box over his lap, just to keep things under control.

"After this episode I think we need to switch it up," Dorothy waved at the television, "let's watch a movie. Something that wasn't filmed in Vancouver or Chicago."

"How about _Sixteen Candles_?" Sam offered, recalling the cult film discussion he'd walked in on. The cult film discussion that carried on the rest of the day and into the following one, until he'd carved out some time to watch a few, just out of curiosity.

Charlie tossed her head. "Hell no. I'm still mad about that one. But you're onto something. _Ladyhawke_?"

"Of course you pick the obscure fantasy," Dorothy laughed.

" _Ladyhawke_ is not obscure," Charlie retorted, and squirmed on the sectional until her head lay in Dorothy's lap.

"Is too."

"Is not!"

"Fight me."

They fell into a brief tussle, and Sam shot a look at Castiel. His face was schooled, turned towards the screen with total focus, but one blue eye rolled back to Sam. Castiel snorted and shrugged, shaking his head. A fond smile broke through.

On the other side of the sectional, Charlie - apparently - won. Dorothy capitulated, both of her wrists captured in Charlie's white hands. She shot Sam a look across the living room, glowing and proud. Look, Dorothy seemed to say, look what I've got. She stuck her tongue out. He quirked a smile.

" _Say Anything…_?" Dorothy suggested.

"Albuquerque," Charlie replied. She and Dorothy wrinkled their noses at one another.

"I mean the movie," Dorothy explained, leaning back, "John Cusack. Late Eighties. I used to watch it like, once a month in high school. That movie, _Top Gun_ , and _Days of Thunder_ got me through senior year without killing anyone. And it's why I own every Peter Gabriel album known to man."

A look of recognition dawned on Charlie's face. She sat up, combing her fingers through her hair. "Oh! Right! Guy from the wrong side of the tracks dates the high school valedictorian, yadda yadda, John Cusack stands under a window with a boombox and becomes a pre-internet meme. Wait—" She whipped around, giving Dorothy a measuring look, "that's the reason why we had sex to _In Your Eyes_ , isn't it?"

Dorothy glanced at Sam again, this time mischievous, biting her lip. Charlie threw her arms around Dorothy's shoulders and squeezed her. "You're awesome. You are so awesome. You are the best girlfriend ever."

"Yeah, okay, how about not that movie?" Sam interrupted, before Dorothy could implode.

His outburst reminded Charlie that other people existed in the room. "Oops," she said.

" _Blade Runner_ ," Castiel barked, desperate as a drowning man. And _Blade Runner_ it was.

* * *

Sam lost interest in the movie in ten minutes. Not that he didn't like it. He did. He'd seen it roughly sixteen thousand times, give or take, because Dean spent five years of his adolescence trying to become Harrison Ford. Sam could practically mouth the lines.

Bored, his mind and focus slipped left, literally. Castiel was still sitting close to him, so close Sam could feel every twitch. He'd washed off the river, and his cologne smelled like a bonfire. Sam hoped he'd be smelling it all the way home. Castiel's hands rested on his own thighs, thumbs stroking the denim idly. They looked strong, capable, and Sam abruptly remembered that they'd been on him. They'd been all over him. Those innocent, perfect fingers had been wrapped around his dick, pulling an orgasm out of him like opening the throttle of a motorcycle.

Tactical Error, Number Two.

Judging by the warm little looks Castiel kept darting at him, he was having similar issues. Sam tried to keep trading glances to a minimum at first, but when it got obvious that Dorothy and Charlie were happily engrossed in a world of their own, he indulged.

Tactical Error, Number Three.

With a deep breath and a prayer that the area south of his belt buckle would stay put, Sam got to his feet and ambled out to Charlie's kitchen for a third beer. On the way back, he made a detour, slipping out the back door to the small screened-in porch. Every farmhouse in the county seemed to have been built with a minimum requirement of two porches.

The screens were open, inhaling coolish night air and slow birdsong. Sam stepped up to the windows, beer dangling by the neck from his fingers. He heard the floorboards creak behind him, and then there was a broad hand at his back, accompanied by the cedar scent of Castiel's cologne again.

"Maybe this was a bad idea, so soon," Sam whispered, laughing softly at himself.

"I know what I'd rather be doing," Castiel replied, tracing soft circles into Sam's lower back.

"Not enjoying the movie?"

Castiel's shoulder brushed Sam's. His voice was wry. "I've seen it a few hundred times." His palm moved lazily along Sam's skin. A familiar warmth spread out like Castiel had switched on a sun lamp.

Figuring two could play at that game, he kneaded the nape of Castiel's neck. Almost immediately, Castiel's shoulders slumped and his head dropped forward with a sigh. No big surprise - Sam was no pro, but he could feel the knotted muscles under his touch. "We should go back in," Sam murmured, digging into those tight shoulders a little harder. He couldn't help it; he'd shoplifted as a teenager for the same reasons he was coming on to Charlie's brother in her own house. So it scored a 3 on the appropriate behavior scale? Good behavior didn't make him feel the life in his body, _really_ feel it, like the moment Castiel looked up at him, that soft upper lip in striking distance.

Castiel chuckled, breathing into Sam's parted lips. "Do you want to?"

No, he didn't. Sam made that as clear as he could, and Castiel met him halfway.

A muffled snicker brought Sam back to reality. His head snapped up, spotting Charlie in the doorway to the porch, amaretto sour in one hand, fingers pressed to her grin like she'd been watching kittens. A red hot flush burned up Sam's throat.

"So, hi," Charlie said, dropping her hand and biting her lip to suppress another smile, "I should probably lecture you about the risks of dating coworkers," she said, "but, um, you know. At this point, it would be, 'do as I say, not as I do,'" she held up her drink with a shrug, "my whole clinic is having an ethical breakdown."

"I can see you're wracked with guilt," Castiel observed.

"Oh, I am. I'm on my way to schedule a seminar right now," Charlie replied, muffled through a lazy sip. "So, when did this development… develop? And more importantly: Cas, is this why our clients have stopped calling to complain about you?"

Sam shook his head, frantic to reassure her that they hadn't been screwing around on clinic hours. Which they hadn't. If you didn't count the Starbucks and the midnight confessional. That happened before the sex, so technically it didn't count as screwing around. There were rules about these things. He'd seen them on Pinterest.

"Yes," Castiel said.

A hot rock lodged in Sam's throat. "W-wait, no, it's not like that." He held out his hands to Charlie, "We weren't— _seriously_ Charlie, I'd never—"

Castiel's eyes flicked up to his in confusion, shifting to amusement as if Sam's anxiety was written on his forehead in bold uppercase type. "Oh. Sam is correct," he said, turning back to Charlie, "the 'developments,' as you refer to them," his fingers quirked into air quotes, "occurred this morning."

" _Not_ at work," Sam clarified, "as of Friday we weren't even talking to each other."

Charlie's eyebrows shot up.

"Hence the 'yes,'" Castiel explained. His fingertips skated down the inside of Sam's wrist. Another surge of warmth soaked the tension out of Sam's shoulders. "It occurred to me some time ago that I was being insufferable."

Risking a smile, Sam took a deep breath and added, "He was."

The silence that followed was so profound, Sam could hear the television clearly, Blade Runner's weird electric soundtrack ratcheting up on the other side of the house. Charlie surveyed them both with skepticism, then took another swallow of her cocktail. "If you guys ever get around to, um, translating that into coherent sentences? All ears. Until then, don't hatebang on clinic hours and we're golden. Also I should really write up some job descriptions. Also," she pointed at Sam's furious blush with her drink, "hurt my brother and vengeance is mine. Et cetera."

Apparently deciding her threat was dire enough to stand, Charlie went back to the living room. Sam wasn't sure what he expected. Certainly not Hallmark-movie-style screams and hugging. Or, maybe he did? Come to think of it, Sam didn't have much experience with how a relationship's expanded universe was supposed to work. He could do the romance thing okay, but never quite got around to the family introductions. Most of his past partners didn't have families to speak of; none they wanted to bring over for dinner.

Past partners hadn't lasted more than a couple weeks.

How did Castiel qualify as a 'partner' in less than twelve hours, when Sam hadn't even been solid on the 'date' part?

"Sam?" Castiel asked, breaking through the frantic wall of self-examination.

Sam blinked and shook his head. The muscles protested, knotted tight again. "This is bad."

"It's not."

"Yes it is. It's unprofessional, and if something happens—"

Castiel moved, in one smooth motion, until his chest pressed against Sam's, fingers sliding together at their sides. "Has something happened?"

Tossing his head, Sam evaded Castiel's eyes. "Something always happens."

He felt, more than heard the soft huff. "That's fair. But that statement is universally applicable. What do you want to happen?"

Sam's stomach rolled over, full of ice and panic. He paddled furiously for the answer to that question, but his mind had gone a smooth, white blank.

"Less broad," Castiel said, when Sam didn't answer, "do you want me?"

The affirmative, fearful and strong, burst out of Sam like the Mississippi through a levee. "Oh yeah."

That seemed to be enough for now, although Sam knew it wasn't over. Castiel stretched up to capture Sam's mouth, and let the conversation pause.

Charlie called their names across the house a few minutes later. They trailed back into the living room together, hangdog grins meeting Charlie and Dorothy's teasing. Sam's stomach slowly warmed again with the laughter. He'd almost found his calm, when Charlie's phone buzzed the coffee table.

"Oh, hang on," she said, putting down her glass, and read the caller ID on the cellphone. "Shit, that's Fifth Street Animal Clinic."

"Doctor McDreamy?" Dorothy sat up, swiveling her legs out of Charlie's lap. "What does she want this late? Whatever it is, I'm down."

Charlie waved her away and answered.

Her smile dropped.

Twenty minutes and three calls later, Dean pulled into Charlie's drive with a grim expression and a truck bed full of cat carriers. A case of severe animal neglect had been discovered across the river in Des Moines County; nearly eighty cats living in and around a single small home. There were some neighbor complaints of smells and noises, but things came to a head tonight for a reason.

The occupant was dead.

Allison McConnell, "Doctor McDreamy," had been contacted by the Burlington police and the Des Moines County Animal Shelter for help. The only vet's office to respond so far, Fifth Street Clinic needed more hands, and more crates.

Dean and Castiel split the gear and crew between their vehicles. Sam rode with Dean, and balanced their emergency kit duffels on his lap.

"Well, this is a goddamned riot," Dean muttered, halfway out of town.

"A pussy riot," Sam agreed.

"You shut up," Dean retorted, but his bad mood dissolved. He nudged Sam's water bottle with an index finger. "bottoms up. I need you sober in thirty minutes or less."

"I hadn't even started on the third beer, Dean," Sam argued, but drank anyway. Whatever buzz he might have had, it vanished the minute Charlie uttered the phrase 'cat hoarder found dead.' But yeah, he'd rather not smell like a six pack for the paramedics and the police.

Dean's fingertips drummed restlessly on top of the steering wheel. "Glad Cas wasn't getting loaded with the rest of you yahoos." He didn't say the name like a swear, which was new. Given the current state of things, Sam would take what he could get.

"We weren't getting loaded," Sam laughed, "and anyway, it's our night off, you don't get to lecture me about pizza and beer."

"What were you watching again?"

" _Due South_. It's a Nineties police show. Canadian Mountie partnered with a Chicago cop."

"I didn't know you were so into vintage snooze fests."

Sam let the back of his skull rest on the window ledge and laughed. It wasn't comfortable, but it was familiar. He'd fallen asleep like this countless times, back of his head rattling against the window. "Says the dude who wore cowboy boots and had his razor set to ' _Doctor Sexy_ Scruff' for what, two years?"

"So is this a one-off thing? Or are you gonna make me buy you _Power Rangers_ sheets next?"

With a merciless cackle, Sam aimed a blind swat at Dean's head and connected. "Who had the Red Ranger shirt, Dean? _Who_?"

"At least I don't still have it! Unlike someone's _White_ Ranger _belt buckle_."

Sam winced. _Touche_. "Stay out of my stuff!"

"It's not like you're hiding it in your sock drawer! Unlike the giant blue—"

Sam palmed his eyes, feeling a rush of heat on his face for about the third time that night. " _ **DEAN**_."

"—you think I don't know about."

"You are _so_ dead," Sam muttered through his hands.

"Put your own socks away and you can hide all the dildos you want."

Considering the heft of his half empty water bottle, Sam thought about leaving a dent in Dean's skull with it. But a concussion could land them both in the ditch.

He was draining the dregs of that water bottle when Castiel's right blinker flicked on ahead of them, leading them down a narrow blacktop street. Burlington's suburbs were a rats' nest of dead ends, steep grades, and decimated property values. The only people who even knew about this street, lived on it; with the exception of about two dozen emergency personnel milling around the furthest point. Sam spotted the dark silhouettes of Burlington's Finest, moving past the white, boxy Fifth Street Clinic van on their way to their cars. The ambulance was still there, lights off.

"Here we go," Dean murmured to himself.

They pulled over a few houses away, greeted by animal shelter volunteers who helped unload their jumble of cat crates. Doctor Allison McConnell met them at the police line, her gray fleece standing out in the dark, cords of her hair tied up in a neat bun. She filled in Charlie's team as she led them across the lawn. Sam followed, pulling on a pair of heavy vinyl gloves.

"Thanks for the help," Allison said, and handed them a pile of masks to distribute, "we've got live traps out. EMTs have the body, and we're moving the sickest animals now."

"Sickest?" Charlie echoed, slightly muffled through her mask.

With a nod, Allison pulled open the side door for them. The house exhaled over them, gusting the stench of cat urine, rot and mold into Sam's face. "Starved, dehydrated, mostly. Probably not vaccinated," Allison said, "Floor's a little rotten by the kitchen counter; watch your step."

Nothing to do but plunge in. Sam lost track of the time. There were cats everywhere. Backed against the shabby furniture, glaring from under tables and piles of garbage bags and pressed into every corner and shelf. Their eyes - from the tiniest kittens to the creaky long-toothed codgers - were wide, terrified, and accusing. Even with protective gear, everyone had a set of scratches by the end of the night.

Ten new residents for the Bradbury Clinic's long term care unit were going to Lomax, carriers strapped down in the back of Castiel's jeep and Dean's pickup. Sam gritted his teeth as an EMT swept antiseptic solution down the double row of red lines in his shoulder and neck. He hissed, and she nodded. "Yeah, that one was going for the jugular. I'm gonna put some antibiotic ointment on them - have you got a clean shirt?"

Sam shook his head.

"That's okay." She smoothed a clear gel on Sam's broken skin with a long cotton swab. "Don't put that one back on tonight. If the area looks red or swollen in a few days, feels warm or hurts to touch, and you get a fever, a headache that won't go away or just feel tired - flu symptoms, you know? Call your doctor. Also, that's quite a sunburn."

She moved on to the next patient after that: Castiel, sporting a similar set of love-pats from their new charges. He unbuttoned his shirt for the EMT and stood patiently while she cleaned up his bleeding neck.

"You sure you boys were rounding up cats?" She asked wryly, "Or angry koalas?"

Castiel's gaze held Sam's like a lifeline, and he couldn't find a witty answer to give. He moved in closer, watching the EMT clean up Castiel's skin with rapid efficiency, and pushed both hands into his pockets to resist the urge to touch him. He couldn't. Not here. Not with Dean nearby. Everything would go tits up again if he caught them.

"That was horrific," Castiel said to Sam, his voice quiet and wrecked. Sam's worries stopped their endless spinning.

"Yeah," Sam said, "but we're gonna take good care of them, and the shelter's gonna find them homes."

"I've seen neglect before, in horses," Castiel continued, "but not like this."

The EMT swabbed antibiotic on Castiel's wounds. "My sister, got a farm out by Danville? Called the cops on her neighbors. Something like two dozen horses, all of 'em starving to death."

Righteous fury roared up in Castiel's eyes. There we go, Sam thought; there was the judgy asshole. It was comforting, in a fucked up way. Sam almost didn't know what to do with the expression he'd seen on Castiel a minute ago.

"What happened?" Sam asked the EMT.

She flipped the swab into one container, and snapped the lid back on her antibiotic gel. "Horse rescue place from up by Dubuque got 'em. Was all over Facebook for a couple weeks, finding homes for these horses. Couple of them were too far gone. My sister took one of those. Sweet thing. Big, or would've been if she ever had something to eat besides her own shit. All right, I'll give you the same spiel I gave him. Keep the site clear until the wounds close. Any redness or swelling, any flu symptoms in the next few days - call your doctor right away."

Sam trailed behind as Castiel stalked to the jeep, where the rest of the team waited. The night air lifted his open shift, flaring around Castiel like an angry hawk.

"Ready to go home? I see you two managed to get half naked," Charlie said, without humor. Sam looked at everyone in turn, not surprised to find their expressions mirroring the sick feeling in his gut.

"I can settle the animals in once we're home," Castiel said, "I know it's late."

"I'll help," Sam added immediately.

"We'll all help," Dean declared, followed by firm nods from everyone else. And there was that look again, on Castiel; the one Sam didn't know how to process.

Four hours later, dawn broke through the clinic's shuttered windows. The kennels in the long term care unit were full, vitals taken; fresh water and clean towels doled out to the animals with small dabs of soft food. Sam stood in his own shower, sliding the bar of soap across his stinging, sunburned skin until the lingering smell of cat piss and mold dissolved.

He found Castiel's text as he was drying off.

> _I went back to the clinic. It's not appropriate to ask you to join me; you have to be as exhausted as I am. But for what it's worth, I wish you were here._

Sam tilted his head at the phone; wildly considered sneaking out for a few seconds, and put the thought away. He didn't need anything else to explain right now. _Me too,_ Sam texted in reply, _This whole thing sucks but it seems rougher on you. You ok?_

He left the phone on the bedside table and rummaged for a clean shirt. When he came back, the blue light at the top of the phone blinked steadily.

> _No. Some of the cats have become quite social. That's more painful than when they loathed my presence._

As Sam was reading the text, a new one jumped up underneath.

> _I hate that animals are so forgiving. Why do humans do this, Sam?_

Sam climbed into bed, phone cradled in one hand, and reread the message. Rubbed the back of his neck. _I don't know?_ He answered eventually, _I don't think she neglected those cats on purpose. We don't know what was going on._

Another pause, this one so long, Sam wondered if Castiel intended to leave it like that. _You see the best in people,_ Castiel texted, as Sam was putting his phone down.

_It's better than the alternative,_ Sam replied, _She didn't take care of them, but now they've got all of us. Go home soon, ok? You have to be half dead._

_All right, Sam,_ Castiel said.


	13. Chapter 13

Things found a much quieter rhythm in the weeks following calving season. Castiel and Dean split the day shift, forming a wary alliance as they divvied up appointments. Sam rode out with Castiel once more, but as April slipped into May he spent the shifts on his own. Sam picked up the dropped threads of his actual job, glad chaos hadn't completely overrun the office in the meantime. Reality settled into a predictable cycle of shots and wormers, ticks and ear mites and fleas. Cuts to suture, puppies and kittens to weigh. The rescue cats thrived. Keeping them securely quarantined was a challenge, but somehow even Dean found a few minutes to sit with them. Sam caught him more than once through the glass, gowned and gloved, scratching behind notched ears and ruffling ribby flanks.

Honestly, the most exciting thing to happen in three weeks was the arrival of a reporter and photographer for _The Hawk Eye_ newspaper, checking on their feline refugees. That, and a pregnant pet goat with a heart condition, who dropped twin kids on the floor of Exam Room A while Sam was searching for a new box of nitrile gloves.

Spring storms rolled overhead. Afternoons went dim and green; radios shrilled storm warnings and tornado watches. Restless as the weather, Sam worried about the college applications hanging in limbo. Were they good enough? Or collecting dust in someone's inbox?

What if they said no? What if they said _yes_?

Castiel offered a welcome distraction. Sam grabbed it with both hands.

Underneath Castiel's prickliness, a romantic lurked. Yesterday, he'd dressed up, washed and waxed his jeep by hand to pick Sam up for a late movie; one of the surest displays of rural respect Sam knew. He was enchanted by the stars, having apparently seen little of them in Orlando. If the weather wasn't quite warm enough for sweet wine and stargazing, it made a perfect excuse to make out in a pile of blankets in the back of Sam's pickup.

The whole thing was ridiculous and perfect. Sam wondered when one of them was going to cheat or get diagnosed with cancer or hit by a truck.

He wished he could stop doing that; that wondering when it would end. He figured most normal people, with someone like Castiel unfolding in their arms like a paper flower, would close their eyes, pop a heel, and start calling caterers.

Not wait for them to leave.

But that was the thing, right? Sam's whole life had been about damage control when people left. First it was Dad and his mess, then it was Bobby. Bobby was amazing, but he hadn't legally adopted them and he sure didn't have to put up with them, and Sam took none of it for granted. He spent his teenage years folded up inside, striving to Not Be a Problem. Then, suddenly, he and Dean were on their own, scrambling to feed themselves, scrambling to pay the property taxes and the outrageous heating bill on the old farmhouse Bobby left them, and still finish college.

Everyone and everything went away eventually. This wasn't a movie. The important thing was to be ready and keep moving.

So when Anna Sparks showed up again on a Wednesday in the middle of May, Sam expected her. Well, maybe not her, exactly; but the storm she brought like an anvil cloud on the horizon.

It was his turn on the reception desk when Anna came through the front door. She looked just the same as she had a few weeks previously; same long red hair, neat pantsuit and tiny backpack hanging off one shoulder. The slim difference was the package she had under one arm, wrapped in brown paper and tied off with jute twine. Did people even ship things like that anymore? There was a red, dangerous-looking label on the top, like it was a piece of evidence or contained explosives.

Anna looked him up and down, frown deepening as she recognized him. Sam's brain dredged up the woman's name from the memory of her business card; he tried out a cautious smile. "Ms. Sparks? Welcome back to the clinic. Can I help you?"

Carefully, Anna put the box on the counter and folded her hands. "Is Castiel Bradbury available today? I understand he's quite busy, but this isn't a social call."

Sam tried not to look at the package and failed. A name had been printed neatly in the 'recipient' box on the red label, standing out in blue ink: 'Castiel James Emmanuel Sparks.'

Sparks?

He tore his eyes away and met Anna's wary gaze with a wince. "Does he know you'd be here?"

"I don't have his number," Anna replied, this time with an accusatory note, "and he never called me."

That didn't sound like Castiel. Sam recalled Charlie pocketing the business card; wondered if it ever made its way to him. "He's out on his rounds, but—"

Anna's jaw tightened. "Can you _please_ let him know I'm here? It is critical that I speak with him as soon as possible."

Sam shot a glance at Exam Room A. Dorothy was in the back; Charlie busy with a patient. "Let me give him a call."

He didn't know what to expect from Anna at that, but the heaved sigh of relief hadn't even made the short list. "All right," she said.

She waited at the counter while Sam dialed, making uncomfortable eye contact the whole time in an uncanny impression of Castiel. By the time voicemail picked up and Castiel's dry, slightly confused message played through, Sam's heart was trying to crawl into his throat.

"Hey, Cas? It's Sam," he started, half an octave higher than usual with nerves, and cleared his throat. "Look, um, a woman named Anna Sparks stopped by the clinic today around three. Her phone number is—" he raised his eyebrows at Anna, who supplied a number, which he repeated into the phone, "—could you give her a call today? She says it's urgent."

"Or I can stay here and meet him," Anna blurted. She shrank back a fraction, like she'd been surprised by her own voice, and tucked the box to her chest.

"Or she can stay and meet you," Sam repeated, "either way, call one of us when you get this? Thanks."

"I'll wait outside," Anna said, as he hung up the phone, "I don't want to cause you any more trouble. Um. Thank you? Thank you," she repeated, like she wasn't sure she should. Like she thought she might have offended him with such a simple request. Sam, on impulse, reached out. She met him halfway, releasing the box she clutched to fold his much larger hand in her slender ones.

"I hope you have a good day," Sam said, sincere and feeling stupid as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Anna was wet-eyed in a blink, shot him a half smile, and retreated out to her car with the box under her arm.

She waited there for the rest of the afternoon. Sam kept an eye on her through the blinds as he checked in patients and tallied bills, still trying to swallow his heart back down to where it belonged. When Dorothy took her shift at the desk, Anna was still in the parking lot, walking the edge of the gravel driveway with her phone on her ear and a hand on her hip.

Castiel arrived just as Sam was checking in his last patient of the day. The jeep pulled up to the windows, casting a yellow glow over the lobby that flickered as the driver's side door closed like a gunshot.

Dorothy's head jerked up on the other end of the room. Two dark figures cut holes in the dying sunlight flooding the windows. Their shadows met, shook hands, and slid from view while Sam held his breath.

At the counter, the patient - an eight-month-old lab puppy - squirmed in her human's arms. Sam tried to swallow his heart down one more time, dragged up a convincing smile, and led the way into Exam Room A.

The showdown happened sometime between weigh-in and vaccinations. Sam opened the exam room door to see Dorothy pale, wide-eyed and worried, barely able to tear her eyes from the parking lot.

"What's going on, Sam? Who is that?" Dorothy blurted, as the door clicked shut behind the man and his dog.

Sam spread his hands. "It's that woman who stopped here a few weeks ago, looking for Cas."

"Wasn't she a lawyer?"

"She had a box for Cas. She said it was urgent." Sam omitted the tears. They weren't anyone's business, let alone his.

The lobby door opened behind them, quiet and slow. Castiel's fingers touched the handle like it was made of glass, and he had Anna's box under his other arm. His eyes flicked from Dorothy to Sam with blank panic, and the distance between them stretched into miles. By the time Sam moved in his direction, Castiel was smoke in his fingers, and the jeep was rolling out of the parking lot again.

"Shit," Dorothy muttered, then, "...Sam? What are you _doing_?"

Sam froze, hand stretched out for the broom closet. "Finishing up for the night?" He choked around the worry.

"I'll close," Dorothy said firmly, "you go."

"Dot—"

" _Go_."

With a grateful nod, Sam snatched his bag from behind the desk and sprinted for his pickup.

Castiel didn't answer his phone. With mounting worry, Sam drew up a mental list of places Castiel might have gone and checked them off one at a time, preparing himself for failure. Maybe Sam shouldn't even be looking. But whatever transpired was partly his doing, and although there were more than a few factors outside his control, he still felt responsible.

No. No, he cared about Castiel. He didn't need to be responsible for Castiel's pain even a little; he just needed to care. Sam squeezed the steering wheel, guilt and embarrassment winding up until he shouted at the dashboard. He was a fucked-up mess, but this wasn't his fault. It would be okay if Castiel sent him away. He just needed to know, someone noticed him in pain and cared.

The river road that passed Sam and Dean's home was empty; so was the meadow by Charlie's place. No yellow jeep glowed in Charlie's driveway. Wherever Castiel was, he absolutely didn't want to be found.

Or what if he did? What if he _was_ drowning in a culvert somewhere, phone was soaked and useless? What if he was unconscious, slumped over his steering wheel after he'd hit a tree, or a telephone pole, or rolled into a cornfield? Sam's skin went cold, and he reached for his phone one more time.

This time, it went straight to voicemail.

"Look," Sam snapped, "I don't know where you are, or if, or if you're even alive, Cas. It's not fair to just tear out of here without a goodbye and then not answer your freaking phone. When you get this, _call me_. I don't know what's going on, but don't forget I'm here."

He tossed his phone on the passenger seat with a growl and stomped down on the accelerator.

He got home to find Dean leaning against the kitchen counter, a beer in his hand. He gestured towards a loose pile of creased white pages and a ripped envelope. "You gonna tell me at some point?"

Sam reached for the envelope with unsteady hands, blood rushing in his ears. "You opened my mail?" He snarled.

"Just so you know? It starts with 'Hey Dean, I applied to grad school.'"

"Why the fuck did you open my mail?"

Dean looked away, shaking his head with a sardonic grin. Like he was looking out to some invisible audience, asking _can you believe this guy?_ Anger swelled up in Sam's chest, choking his throat.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Dean spat, "I _went_ to Cornell. I took classes taught by a goddamned _dean_. I could have made some calls, written some letters, something!"

The disappointment and hurt in Dean's voice finally translated itself across Sam's outrage. The bottom dropped out of his stomach, and for the first time, he looked down at the letter he held.

Denied. Polite refusal, buried in the second paragraph of the letter. We're so sorry, please try again, like Sam's college plans were a prize under a Snapple cap.

"I didn't even know you still wanted to go," Dean went on, "I thought things were _fine_."

The emphasis, the hard press on the last word was the final stab to Sam's gut. He swatted the handful of paper down on the kitchen table. "They were fine for you," Sam shouted, "I didn't tell you because I thought you'd think I was trying to ditch you!"

Dean returned fire. "Take a stab at how _not_ telling me feels." His beer thunked down on the counter.

"What does any of it matter. Huh? None of them want me, so it's not like you've got anything to worry about," Sam waved angrily at the refusal letter, "I'm not going anywhere."

"You think that's what this is about?"

"I don't know. You opened my fucking mail, you tell me."

Dean turned, slamming his hands down on the rim of the sink. Sam saw his expression mirrored in the dark glass, the highlights picked out in ghost white while Dean struggled for control. "Let me help you, Sammy!"

"Why, because you don't believe I can do it myself? Well," Sam snorted, "looks like Cornell proved you fucking right, didn't it?"

Dean's shoulders hunched up. "No," he growled, "You can do whatever, Sammy. Go be a vet, or a lawyer, or a fucking astronaut. Just let me _help_. I had Mom and Dad a few years. All you got was carted around like a suitcase."

The wind drained from Sam's sails, stranding him in dark waters.

"I hated leaving you here alone to finish school," Dean continued, shoulders hunched in the cold light over the sink, "I mean, Bobby was great, but—you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean. I get it Dean, really, but—" Inside Sam's back pocket, his phone chimed. He reached for it, blinking as he read the text. Reread it.

Dorothy's words glowed on Sam's screen:

> _Charlie broke up with me. I'm quitting._

Dean groaned, rubbing his eyes. "What's he want now?"

Sam's brain felt like a basketball broadcast on a five-second delay. "What?" He asked, dragging his eyes up from the phone.

Dean turned back from the sink. "Cas. It's his usual summons, right?"

The derision in his voice finally broke Sam's brittle self control. "No, Dean. I haven't heard from him since this afternoon," he snapped, "but since you wanna go through my private life, how about I just put it all on the table—"

Dean's eyes narrowed. Before Sam could finish his sentence, Dean beat him to it. "You are. You are fucking Cas. _Dammit_ , Sam!"

Adrenaline poured cold water on Sam's nerves; a bomb went off under his breastbone. "I'm _fucking Cas_ ," he declared, "You were right all along. Is that what you wanted? Happy now?" He plowed into Dean's space. " _Happy?_ " Sam repeated with a shove, when Dean failed to react.

"Screw you," Dean snarled, "you wanna keep me out of your life? Fine. I'm out." He elbowed Sam out of the way and stalked out the back door, screen door clattering shut on his heels.

The house seemed to grow in his absence; huge, hollow and silent.

Sam charged out into the dark in the opposite direction of Dean's truck, marching down the gravel road as if he could ever walk far enough way. The adrenaline cooled in the night air, leaving guilt like a lead vest in its wake; leaving Sam to spit curses and tight sobs.

As if he ever could walk far enough away.

As if he ever could.


	14. Chapter 14

Morning warmed the windows before Dean made it home. He seemed sober, but the cigarette and alcohol stink on his jacket tainted the kitchen. Judging from the debauched smirk that greeted Sam over the coffee pot, he didn't want the details of Dean's night. Not that he couldn't take a guess at the highlights. Closed down a bar, went home with a bartender, slept it off in their bed and hitched a ride back to his truck in the AM. Culminating in Dean pretending like last night's argument hadn't happened. That about covered it, right?

Sam slathered peanut butter on a slice of toast, and felt like shit. Yeah, that covered it. And no amount of sarcasm could burn off the lump of ice in his belly over it. The bombs couldn't be un-dropped, and two layers of clothes couldn't make him feel less naked. He knew he'd done damage, but there was no way to assess just how much. Not yet. Not while Dean was still determined to act like Everything Was Fine.

Upstairs, the shower came on. The water trickled through the pipes above Sam's head. He poured his leftover coffee into a thermos and headed to work early.

Castiel still hadn't said a word. Sleep was hard to come by last night with the misery cocktail swirling around in Sam's gut, but he must have at some point - because he'd started up out of half a dozen nightmares on the subject. He'd dreamed that his phone was ringing but broke the minute he tried to answer, or he couldn't find it, or couldn't keep it in his hands. One even starred Dorothy, oddly, knocking on Sam's door to say Castiel hadn't called because he was dead.

Sam considered asking Charlie if he was safe, but - with Dorothy's bitter textwalls from around two in the morning still fresh - it felt like a vague betrayal. See, this? This was why dating coworkers was a bad idea. With a gut-churning fizz of guilt, Sam included himself in that roster. When was this going to happen to him? Or had it already?

A surge of relief rolled over him as Sam pulled into the clinic drive and spotted the dandelion yellow flanks of Castiel's jeep, tucked in by the rear entrance. An instant later, he saw the white hulk of Charlie's SUV behind it. The thought of seeing her now made him want to turn right around. But going home meant running the Dean Winchester Gauntlet of Denial for at least another hour. Sam wondered if a breakfast burrito at Taco John's would taste too much like cowardice.

The lobby windows glowed with life. Nixing the idea of escape, Sam parked his truck next to Castiel's, screwed his courage to the sticking point, and tried to walk as if the act of coming to work an hour early was completely normal.

The back room was busy with rustling boxes. Charlie peeked at him through a gap in the shelving, where she was industriously putting away tubes of wormer and boxes of flea treatment. "Sam?" She asked, understandably surprised. When she came out of her haven in the supply shelves, Sam saw her eyes were red, dark insomniac crescents underneath.

Dorothy-shaped tension sprang up between them. "Hi, Charlie," Sam said, with no better ideas about what to offer. He rubbed his eyes to disguise the embarrassed flush, as the ground between them felt uneven now in a way it never had before. He cared, but was suddenly, crushingly aware of his position at the same time. "Look, um—"

"You know," Charlie blurted. "I'm so sorry, Sam. Dorothy quit last night. This is all my fault. I know you know. You have to know. Everything's just, just, HBP-level crazy and emotional right now. I'll figure it out. We'll be okay."

Sam blinked. "HBP?"

Charlie shoved a hand through her hair and cocked her head. " _Half Blood Prince_."

Huh. Sam would have pegged _Order of the Phoenix_ \- but when he read it, he'd been hoping for a secret Sirius Black to come bounding out of his family tree, too. He gave Charlie a nod. "Right. I get it. I'm sorry you guys didn't—I mean—"

"It was never going to work," Charlie said, sniffed, and darted to the sink for a paper towel. The tip of her nose was as red as her eyes, Sam noticed. She blew her nose with a honk. "I shouldn't have even asked her out."

"What happened?" Sam asked quietly, "Not prying, just—things seemed okay?"

"Things were okay. Things were great. She's great. But she works—worked—" Charlie shook her head and went on, needing an audience more than a conversation. "We had a fight about something stupid and all I could think about was 'what happens when this goes tits up?' I guess I was right. It did. And it's all my fault. I mean, seriously - you don't even know my last three exes' names, Sam."

"Because… I'm your vet tech?" Sam asked, the words escaping before he could filter out the sarcasm.

"You call them 'the parakeet girl,' 'the pony girl,' 'the collie girl,'" Charlie spat the words like an accusation.

"Don't forget 'the turtle girl,'" Sam supplied helpfully, "It could mean I'm an asshole, Charlie. What are you getting at?"

"No, it means _I'm_ an asshole," Charlie replied, arms swinging out helplessly, taking in the breadth of her uselessness with a sweep, "They were _patients_. I dated _patients_. I dated an _employee_. I don't deserve her. Or you," she said, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. "You may be a jerk but you don't need this, why are you here so early?"

With a surge of panic, Sam hustled last night's refusal letter under the mental rug. "Rough night. Couldn't sleep," he said, hoping his tone was breezy enough to dismiss, and changed the subject, "Is Cas okay? I couldn't get hold of him at all last night."

Charlie's eyes snapped to his. "He wasn't with you?"

"He didn't come home?" Sam asked, lowering his voice to a murmur. A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He looked up to see Castiel coming down the hallway. He looked drawn, tired as his sister.

"I'll um," Charlie stammered, "I'll just—" she gestured to the hallway and vanished down it, squeezing past Castiel. Her footsteps receded while he stared at Sam, saying nothing.

With a deep breath, Sam gestured to the back door. "Hi, Cas. I need to talk to you."

Castiel didn't move. "If this is about not answering your messages, I apologize," he said, "I have some calls to make this morning before I leave, Sam."

"No," Sam replied, holding firm as his stomach bobbed, "this isn't about that. Or not only about that. Can we go outside?"

Castiel shook his head, but this time complied. "Fine," he huffed, and stalked into the parking lot.

Sam put his bag down on the counter and followed, closing the door softly behind him. The internal thunderstorm quieted at the click of the latch, like somehow he'd shut all the noise away with the gesture. He took a few deep breaths of crisp air, grateful for the brief moment of peace. "Are you okay?" He asked, as he turned around.

"Sam—" Castiel started, the impatience in his voice audible. He stopped, and from the look on his face, Sam could guess that wasn't the question he'd expected. He stared at Sam some more, squinting now. In a minute Sam expected him to whip out a script and check it.

"Yeah, I'm pissed you didn't call," Sam said with a shrug, "I'm worried. You looked like a ghost after you talked to that woman, then you practically burned rubber getting out of here. You wouldn't talk to me, and now Charlie said you didn't come home. What's going on, Cas? Where were you?"

"I went for a drive."

"All night?"

"The highway's a good place to think."

Sam snorted.

"Also, Iowa doesn't know the meaning of 'open 24 hours' unless it pertains to a gas station," Castiel added.

"Des Moines probably does," Sam said, shrugging, "or Dubuque."

"Not Des Moines. I looked. Several hundred thousand people, I expected differently. Apparently my logic doesn't account for Iowans."

It took a second for the declaration to process. Sam blinked. "Dude, did you—did you _go there_ last night?" The capital of Iowa was three hours west of where they stood.

Castiel held up his new phone. "It's on I-80. My GPS works now," he reminded, as if that explained six hours on the road in the middle of the night. Some hint of Sam's opinion must have made itself clear in his expression, as Castiel's eyes veered away again. "I'll be fine, Sam."

"Driving to Des Moines and back in the middle of the night is kind of the definition of 'not fine,'" Sam replied, and hesitated. "Cas, I saw the box. It had your name on it. But your last name—"

"Same as Anna's," Castiel said, voice gone flat and ugly, "Do the math."

Sam's conscience and temper gouged him simultaneously.

"So as to whether or not 'I'm okay,'" Castiel's head tipped at a haughty angle, "I'm sure you can draw the correct conclusions there, too."

The buffer between Sam and his own head noise vanished. His mind turned angry circles, finding a hundred words but not the right ones. But something had to be said, and in desperation, Sam blurted the loudest thought. "Screw you, asshole. You don't _have_ to be alone."

There was that script-checking look again in Castiel's eyes. The look that scanned him for ulterior motives.

Good fucking luck with that, Sam thought.

Before he could say anything else, the back door of the clinic swung open. Charlie stood in the doorway, phone on her ear and filled with holy determination. "Guys? One of the Sutters' mares is foaling. All hands on deck." Her attention shifted to the phone. "Dean, shut up. She's huge. You need both of them."

Castiel and Sam traded glances.

"Always an adventure," Castiel said dryly.

"I'll drive," Sam said.

* * *

The ride to the Sutter farm was brief and gray and mostly silent, with the exception of the rain spitting on the windshield.

"You should not be doing this," Sam muttered eventually, "I didn't get a _lot_ of sleep last night and Dean may hate my guts right now, but at least I didn't road trip to freaking Des Moines."

"I'll be fine," Castiel grunted, slumped against the window. "The Sutters' draft mares are both in foal; I saw them last week. Charlie didn't specify which one was foaling, but I assume it's Thelma. Her pregnancy was further along."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Thelma? What's the other mare's name?"

"Louise," Castiel supplied, after a beat.

"Of course it is."

"Why does Dean hate your guts?" Castiel asked, as the conversation lapsed.

"Oh, now you wanna talk?" Sam huffed, and pulled into the Sutters' long gravel lane. The oldest Sutter daughter, nineteen with day-glo braces and a bad sunburn, flagged them down near the barn. She led them inside, to a dim, roomy box stall where Thelma - a massive, amber-colored Belgian mare - stretched on her side in an ankle-deep layer of straw. Mrs. Sutter and Dean knelt with her, shirts collared with sweat. Louise occupied the neighboring stall, where she paced back and forth until the ground trembled.

As Castiel and Sam arrived at the door, Dean looked up. "It's stuck," he panted, "Her contractions are a few seconds apart now. She just about broke my arm."

Castiel set down his equipment duffel and unreeled a long plastic glove. "Cause?"

"The left leg's curled under, and she's been struggling a while before we got here." Dean stroked his free hand across Thelma's flank. He moved to the side as Castiel knelt. Thelma's head came up at his approach. She watched him slick clear jelly onto the outside of his glove, then dropped her head slowly back with a tired whuff, legs stiffening through another series of contractions. One soft white hooftip poked out from beneath her bound tail, vanishing as the contractions ended.

Her hitch partner, Louise, poked her massive blonde head over the wall. She snorted at them, giving all and sundry the stink-eye as her chin scraped the top of the partition.

When the contractions passed, Castiel reached inside to assess the situation. He closed his eyes, searching blindly for the foal in the dark. "Muzzle. Ear. Neck. Okay. There it is—"

Thelma's body went taut, slow and then faster, jerking like a puppeteer yanked her strings. Castiel made a grinding sound in his throat. Louise's head jerked over the wall again. She pawed the ground with a hoof the size of a manhole cover, and resumed her pacing.

"Wedged tight," Castiel panted, when the contraction subsided, "We need to push it back."

"I tried that already," Dean said.

"You have a better idea?" Castiel snapped.

Overhead, the sky let go. The quiet patter on the barn roof became a thunder. Louise squealed in the adjoining stall. Her hooves scraped the wall, fierce and threatening. "Guys," Sam said quietly, "chill out."

Both men looked up at him, then at the white-ringed eye trained on them over the wall. "Fine," Dean muttered, "try it, Cas."

Castiel shoved. Swallowed another scream as Thelma's contractions crushed his hand and Louise tried to tear a hole in the wall. Pushed again. And again. "Fuck, fuck, I can't," he spat, the words dragged over broken glass, "I can't."

"Robin?" Dean squinted up to where Sam and Mrs. Sutter stood by the entrance of the stall, "If we can't get this baby out, things are gonna get serious quick. I need you to call Fifth Street right now, and get your trailer ready. They need to prep for surgery."

Robin Sutter snatched for her phone, squeezing past Sam to get out of the stall. She walked swiftly towards the doors, emotion thickening her voice as the Fifth Street Animal Clinic receptionist picked up the call.

Sam's gaze flicked from her to the mare on the ground. "Let me try," Sam said, surprised by the confidence in his own voice.

"What, a couple weeks on calf watch and you're a fucking doula? Sammy, no," Dean growled.

Sam snatched up another long plastic glove and let himself in the stall. "I'm stronger than either of you," he declared, "and I actually slept last night. Some. Move over. Tell me what to do."

They moved. Sam caught sight of Dean's shocked eyes as he knelt. He girded up his resolve before it could escape.

Castiel explained the process, and Sam mirrored his movements, using the foal's single protruding leg as a guide. His fingers bumped the soft muzzle and moved quickly past it, searching for the foal's broad chest through a slippery layer of amniotic sac. The space relaxed slightly around his fingertips, and he felt the foal's left shoulder, stringy left leg folding down and bent away at an angle that would never let it escape.

"Okay, I've got it." He followed the leg back up to the chest again, ready to push just as another series of contractions stiffened Thelma's body.

"Wait!" Castiel whispered. Sam snatched for air as powerful muscles squeezed his arm. There wasn't enough space for the foal in here, let alone Sam's arm, and as the pressure point of Sam's wrist met unrelenting bone, the pain made him see stars. Thelma groaned, and Louise crashed against the walls of her stall with a shrill, earsplitting cry.

When the pain and pressure subsided at last, Sam pushed back on the foal's chest, shoes skidding in the straw as he struggled for leverage. Then Dean was there, solid at his back and a firm base to push against, and the foal moved back. He only had a few more seconds before Thelma undid all of their work, so Sam moved fast, reaching through the dark for the long leg, shoulder to knee to ankle to hoof. He cupped it, urging it up and up, afraid that any minute Thelma would convulse and the fragile leg would snap. At last he felt it move towards him, uncurling, and when his hand came free there was the missing hoof, peeking out beside its twin.

He felt a rush of elation as hands landed on his back in congratulations, thumping him hard enough to vibrate his chest.

Dean scooted around him. "Okay," he said, bracing himself on his knees and taking one of the foal's slim legs in both hands, "next push."

Castiel and Sam joined him, and together with Thelma's last ounce of strength, ushered the foal into the world.

For a terrifying minute Sam thought it was dead, suffocated while they struggled. But as Castiel cleared its nose and mouth, the nostrils fluttered, ribcage suddenly rising with a gasp. Ears plastered to its head, it kicked, jerking liked a man out of a nightmare. "It's a filly," Dean pronounced, sounding relieved, and turned his attention to the mother.

There was an echoing gasp at the stall door. All three men looked up to see the sunburnt Sutter daughter, day-glo braces split by a wide grin. Her tennis shoes thudded away down the barn aisle. A few seconds later, they heard her voice in the distance, shouting for her mother.

Louise stopped her pacing. She rested her head on the wall, whickering as tenderly as if she hadn't been threatening to come through the partition a minute ago. Sam got to his feet and rubbed her jaw on the way to the equipment duffels. He pulled out the scissors and a bottle of iodine, which he delivered to Castiel.

Castiel looked up from tying off the filly's umbilical cord. His eyes, when they found Sam's, were soft. "Thank you," he said.

In a perfect world, things would have been sunshine and rainbows after that. They'd be heroes and everything would be fine. But this was Iowa, and the filly was struggling to nurse. Her brain was swelling from the sustained pressure of the birth canal. Mother and child would spend their first days together in a padded stall at Fifth Street Animal Clinic, where the swelling could be monitored until it receded, hopefully with no lasting damage. Sam marched back to the truck, shoulders hunched and soaked by the rain.

That seemed like an accurate prognosis of Sam's world, too. Everything from his relationships to his shoulders felt too sore and inflamed to touch. He tossed the duffel he carried between his body and Castiel's like a wall as they climbed into the cab.

Castiel looked up at him, startled, as the bag came down between them with a thump. "Is everything all right? It's not," he amended, sighing, "Sam, about this morning—"

"No. I don't want an apology, I don't want an excuse." Sam put the truck in reverse, and as he looked over his shoulder he caught Castiel's wary glance.

"What do you want, Sam?"

"I want to stop letting shit happen to me? I don't know. I don't know what you're going through, but the shit you said this morning was not cool." He lifted a quelling hand from the wheel to stop the explanation, justification, apology; whatever was coming. "No, okay? No."

Silence in the cab, as Sam turned around in the Sutter drive and headed towards the highway at a slow clip, windshield wipers slapping away the rain.

"I don't know how to go forward from here," Castiel said, sounding irritated, "you don't want an apology, what do you want?"

"Is an apology gonna mean you stop this shit?"

"Stop what?"

Sam shook his head, frustration bubbling out in laughter. "I'm fucked up enough to think it's hot when you're a sarcastic dick, I know that. But I also believe that's not all this morning was about. Otherwise, that was you treating me like a moron, and if that's how things are gonna go, I'm out."

More silence. The rain intensified as they picked up speed, washing the truck in an ocean of sound.

"Am I allowed to not want to talk about this?" Castiel said at last, sounding strangled.

"About this morning?" Sam replied in disbelief, squeezing the wheel until his knuckles whitened, "Not if you plan on fucking me anymore, dude. Your call."

"It's not—" All the air went out of Castiel's voice, leaving it high and small. He leaned away from Sam. "I don't mean us. My parents. If I promise to tell you everything eventually, can you, _please_ , not make me discuss it now?"

Sam's chest squeezed around a fresh ball of guilt. He swallowed. "Of—of course, Cas. You just, you said you were going to prove something to me, when we first—"

"It has _never_ been 'fucking,'" Castiel growled, spitting the last word like it hurt his mouth.

"Okay," Sam said, giving the sentence some space. They turned into the clinic drive. Sam pulled in at the back entrance, and sat for a minute as the engine died, trying to figure out if he'd gotten what he needed or not. Castiel seemed to be in a similar frame of mind, hands folded tightly between his knees.

"I admit I hurt you on purpose," Castiel murmured, sounding more like himself with every syllable, "You have a right to be angry."

"Why? I mean, why'd you come at me like that?"

"So you'd stop. I don't know how to deal with any of this. You being worried—if you kept going—"

Sam closed his eyes. "You'd crack. I shouldn't have gotten into it then."

"I shouldn't have ignored your messages," Castiel replied, contrition bright in the words, "I didn't know what to say. I don't like leaning on people."

They have a habit of stepping out from under you, Sam thought. He reached over the duffel bag, offering Castiel his hand, who took it with an expression full of hesitation. Their fingers slipped together and the tension went out of Sam's stomach.

"Let me reschedule your afternoon appointments," Sam said, "you need sleep. Then, um, can I come over and sort this out? Tonight?"

With his free hand, Castiel dug out his keys. He removed a silver key from the ring, and offered it. "If I'm not up, please wake me," Castiel said, with a weak smile, "I don't want to miss you."

Sam accepted the key and dropped it in his chest pocket. "You won't."


	15. Chapter 15

Sam's shift ended much the same as it began: dismal gray and hazed with steady rain. He flipped the bolt on the lobby door with a long sigh, and turned to the broom closet for the mop. The rain turned the lobby and exam room into gritty mud pits, and his hands were chapped from too much washing. Humans could usually be relied on to wipe their feet; not so much with the canine patients. Everything about dogs was messy, Sam thought as he swiped at the streaks of dirt by the reception counter. That was half the fun, even if it meant twice the chores. Besides, it was hard to be unhappy with a soft-eyed, soaking wet Labrador trying to snuggle him indiscriminately during weigh-in. And today, he needed all the joy he could find.

The clinic was quiet and lonely and subtly wrong without Dorothy, like Sam had stumbled into an alternate universe. In her absence too, the work seemed to multiply exponentially. Underlining the missing presence, Charlie's typical carbonated personality was as muted as the weather, and Dean hardly spoke to Sam when he checked in at the end of the day. He felt like a ghost.

Castiel was still asleep when Sam let himself into the farmhouse. He put the key down gently on Castiel's bureau, next to its identical twin, and turned back to where Castiel sprawled on top of the covers. He still wore his mud-spattered jeans from the morning, radiating the smell of horse, manure and sweat. Sam sat down next to him on the mattress, lip curling as the barnyard funk hit him. He pictured Castiel going crosseyed and toppling like a felled tree the minute he got home.

Sam stroked a hand down Castiel's back, and murmured his name.

Castiel cracked an eye. The eye rolled back to Sam, and Castiel turned over with a deep stretch. "Oh, God," he drawled through clenched teeth, "Everything hurts. Need a shower."

The chilly sadness melted. "Yeah, you do," Sam agreed with a grin, "Glad you got some sleep."

Castiel scrubbed his face with his palms. "There was nothing voluntary about it. Ugh." His nose wrinkled and darted away from his sleeve.

Chuckling, Sam shooed Castiel into the bathroom. He sat back down on the bed to wait, until the mixed perfume of animal and barn rose to meet him from the covers. With a glance at the bathroom door, shower still hissing behind it, Sam scouted for the linen closet.

Stripping and remaking the bed took less time than he'd expected, or else Castiel was into really long showers. Either way, the water was still going by the time he'd finished. Sam dropped the wad of stale sheets and duvet in the laundry basket, and turned towards the bathroom door once again. He hesitated.

Was this ethical? Was this okay? Things were still fragile, and what if—

The potential ending of that sentence made Sam's stomach jump like he was strapped into the Slingshot at the county fair. It was unethical to walk into that bathroom, if Sam expected this relationship to end tonight. It was unethical if Castiel was of a similar opinion. Both possibilities made him panicky.

He charged to the door, and slipped into the humidity with a deep inhale. The heat and resiny scent of Castiel's soap poured over him. "Hey, want some company?"

The glass shower door slid back after a moment. Castiel leaned around it, skin wet and shining, smile beckoning. "Please."

Sam shucked his clothes in record time, and stepped over the tub wall into Castiel's arms.

"Better?" Sam murmured, leaning down to kiss his temple as the door closed again. Humidity clung to his skin, as Castiel's scent settled in his lungs like the steam off a good cup of coffee. Yeah, it was better; Castiel's nod was slight against Sam's mouth, but the hands spread against Sam's back tightened and pulled him closer. Even the light in the bathroom seemed to glow just a little warmer, and if his ass was kind of cold out there in the wind with Castiel blocking the spray, Sam didn't mind.

"So did you use Charlie's key to get in?" Sam asked, "Or did you ninja your way up the drainpipe or something?"

"We keep a spare key in a fake rock, Sam," Castiel answered, amused.

"You could have just told me where it was," Sam protested.

A low chuckle rumbled out of Castiel's chest. "It's in the rock garden. That would have been a comedy of errors."

"You guys have a rock garden?"

"In my defense, the rock garden was here when I arrived," Castiel said, taking Sam's surprise for criticism.

"No, it's just, Charlie didn't strike me as much into landscaping," Sam clarified, digging his hands into Castiel's hair. The result was just what he'd hoped for: Castiel's eyes shuttered almost immediately; his head tipped into Sam's touch.

"She's not. The rock garden was here when she arrived, too," Castiel said, followed by a fluttering breath as Sam's mouth skated along his throat. Rivulets of warm water washed against his lips and into his mouth. Castiel's skin tasted fresh. A trace of his cologne lingered - smoke and wood and incense - in the tender hollow beneath his ear, or maybe in Sam's memory. He kissed the spot, before Castiel's palm fitted to his cheek and brought their mouths together again.

Something new flavored the kiss. Something that made Sam's heart double up like a fist; made the air thick in his lungs. He held Castiel's cheek as Castiel cupped his, soaking in the scent and taste of him while the water beat on the backs of his hands. Their bodies seamed together, thigh to chest as Castiel nestled in, with touches that kneaded and clung and dug in a little. Like he was afraid to let go.

He was vibrating. Or Castiel was. Maybe they both were together. Maybe he'd had the same thoughts as Sam, with the same conclusions, which made this slow, shivery exploration not just ethical, but ethical _as fuck_. It was so ethical, someone could write a case study about it and set a new standard for ethical behavior.

Okay, that was too much.

The water was tepid by the time Sam got under any of it, but that was all right. Castiel was plenty warm, running hungry wet hands and slick lather across Sam's skin, until the bathroom smelled like a juniper forest. Their mouths kept finding one another, sipping kisses beaded with water. The hesitation in touch ran out like the heat, their skins still damp when Sam pulled them both into Castiel's low bed. He burrowed with Castiel under clean sheets, claiming every texture of him with his hands and mouth.

"Get on your back," Sam whispered in an ear, just for the shudder it caused. When Castiel obeyed, Sam straddled him, closing his eyes in pleasure as the solid hips pushed his legs further apart. He threw back his shoulders, and pink sunset light hit his eyes. The rain was finally done.

Castiel's fingers skated up Sam's splayed thighs. His knees bent, cradling Sam in his hips and the nest of blankets. "Sam," he breathed, like the name was a prayer, and his palms smoothed over Sam's belly; his ribs and arms. That was good in a way that surprised him, and maybe sure, he wanted to get off, but he also kind of wanted to sit here and let Castiel touch him like this. Like he thought Sam might be a mirage. He wasn't quite ready to go all the way to where his heart was nudging; wasn't quite ready to believe the thing, because it was too precious for an asshole like him. But the way Castiel touched him - the way Castiel had been touching him for a long time - going and believing got a little simpler.

Faith. This was probably faith. Or what passed for faith in a guy like him, anyway. The sense of newness in the shower crystallized, and Sam's heart tightened with that deep, panicky ache again. He couldn't keep waiting, prepping himself for things to go wrong. He couldn't keep holding back. Couldn't _not_ love Castiel.

Castiel pushed himself up on his elbows, stretching up to Sam, who leaned down and met him with a kiss like the seal on a holy rite.

They got around to the sex eventually, moving slow for the sore muscles that pricked them both. Relaxing into the pleasure in Castiel's hands felt like sinking in a hot tub, all the fizzy goodness spreading heat to the parts of Sam that never seemed to get warm. It took teamwork to get things lined up quite right, but teamwork was looking like a really good thing; like the best thing, like the magic word of the day. Castiel sat up to wrap his arms around Sam's back, kiss his throat, bury his face in Sam's chest as they came together.

Sam at twenty, dating serial cheaters with motorcycles and anger management issues, never thought he'd go for that kind of thing.

Boy howdy, was he into it now.

Quivery breath spilled into the hollow of Sam's throat and he knew he was making a mess of Castiel and loved it. Only fair, really.

Sam's knees protested and they shifted positions. He slid down on his stomach, with pillows tucked under him at Castiel's suggestion. Utter stroke of brilliance. Castiel slid back inside of him, and Sam relaxed into the pillows under his hips, riding the bliss. It was all good. Everything was good. By the time Castiel's gorgeous fingers nuzzled their way between the pillow and Sam's hip to stroke him off, he was higher than a kite on sensation and a solid hit of pure, unironic joy.

He helped as much as he could to pull Castiel with him to the finish, but he was a lazy bastard, post-coitus; Castiel would get there one way or another. So Sam made encouraging noises for him - not that he had to try all that hard - and rolled up against him when it was over, humming to the soles of his feet with a truly unsettling amount of contentment.

He didn't ask if he could stay, and Castiel didn't offer. He just stayed, dozing in a sea of sheets that smelled like sex and Castiel's woodsy soap.

Castiel's hand lay on his shoulder, cool and light, tracing his skin in cursive loops. His breath washed warm on Sam's temple, where a slow kiss landed now and then.

"I hear you," Sam said, hypnotized and half asleep, "it's okay."

There was a gusty exhale, then, and another kiss pressed to his hairline. Far away, he heard the screen door creak, then Charlie's key scuff the lock downstairs. Sam started, then relaxed, sinking into the familiar reassurance of life in a house. His last conscious thought was of Bobby; the calm shuffle of an old man getting coffee in the kitchen beneath Sam's room.


	16. Chapter 16

Sam's cellphone alarm strummed him awake, into a room full of shadows and angles he didn't recognize. He reached for his phone automatically, fingers dusting air where the bedside table should have been. An airhorn blat of panic shocked him to full consciousness then, and his eyes tracked the ambient glow of his phone, across the room on Castiel's bureau.

Sam flung himself out of the low bed, grimacing as joints and muscles protested. He stroked the alarm on the phone screen, letting go a relieved breath as the room went silent and dark again. Glancing over his shoulder at the bed, Sam could just discern the rustling shape Castiel made in the covers.

"Morning, Sam," Castiel said, and the words were a caress. Sam padded around the bed, sitting down naked on the edge beside Castiel, because the blankets were definitely still warm and if he rolled back into them, he'd never get up. He leaned over as Castiel's arm stole around his waist, meeting him in an unhurried kiss.

"You need to go home," Castiel observed. The resignation in his voice made Sam smile.

His fingers sifted through Castiel's sleep-wild hair. "Yeah," Sam said, with equal reluctance, "But I'd like to do this again soon. Like," he laughed a little at his own neediness, "really soon. Like this weekend?"

In answer, Castiel sat up, sliding an arm around Sam's shoulders. The kiss that followed sent sparks racing down his spine. When Castiel's hands released him, Sam felt colder, hungry to nestle in again. He summoned up the will to move, and went to find his pants. As he was zipping up the fly, he felt Castiel's nude chest press against his back, sleep-warmed.

"Box," Castiel said at last, "the box. I can show you then."

After a moment of confusion, Sam pulled up the memory. The box with Castiel's name on it. Funny, even though it arrived less than forty-eight hours ago, the events of the last two days felt like ages ago. "You don't have to, Cas. I mean, if you want to, yeah. That would be great. But seriously. It's up to you."

"I think it'll be all right," Castiel said with quiet certainty, and pressed his mouth to the point of Sam's shoulder. His fingers hooked into Sam's beltloops and pulled him flush against Castiel's body. Sam leaned into him, closing his eyes with a soft sigh.

"Work," Castiel muttered into Sam's skin, and let go of him with a last stroke down his ribs.

"Work," Sam echoed, turning to kiss the goodbye out of Castiel's mouth.

* * *

While there were no messages from Dean overnight, Sam had a missed call from Dorothy. He listened to the voicemail in his truck on the way home. Dorothy slurred, self-depreciated and rambled, but the long and short of it was: she'd just finished a very large bottle of red moscato, and she missed Sam and the clinic. And the redheaded blank space in the middle of her words, Sam thought. He'd been so wrapped up in his own problems, he hadn't done more than text Dorothy since she quit. Even if he sympathized with Charlie's fears, Dorothy was his friend. A friend clearly in pain, which he'd more or less ignored.

He swept his finger across her photo on his phone screen, which glowed green as it dialed.

Dorothy answered, and instantly launched into an apology for drunk dialing him.

With a sheepish laugh, Sam put the phone on speaker and set it on the seat next to him. "It's okay," he reassured, "seriously, Dot, don't worry about it. How hungover are you?"

"My brain feels like a shriveled sponge," Dorothy moaned, "here's the thing Sam. If you're going to drink a whole bottle of wine in one go? You probably shouldn't pregame. Three shots of vodka. Never again."

Sam winced. "So I guess asking you how you're doing is a dumb question."

"Very dumb," Dorothy agreed, laughed, and followed up with a groan. "Ow. Bad idea. I'll be all right. I'm taking some time off before I job hunt. It's nice to just lay around. Feels like I'm on vacation."

If it was a lie, Sam chose not to call her on it. "Want to find some time in that vacation for dinner? Or coffee?" Sam asked, amending the request as he remembered Dorothy's hangover. A long pause followed, until Sam shot a glance down at his phone. "Dot? Did I lose you?"

"No," Dorothy replied, sounding hesitant, "I guess, yeah, dinner would be nice. Actually dinner would be great. I'd have to put on real pants for that and stop day drinking, which will probably make me feel better."

"As opposed to fake pants? What are those? Jorts? Tights?"

"Pajama bottoms, dillhole," Dorothy retorted, and Sam could hear her smile down the line, "I miss your stupid face. Tonight? It's not like I've got plans."

Home rolled into view, the white two-story house peeking through the trees as Sam neared the drive. "Sure. I've gotta get ready for work, Dot. Put on your real pants, pick a place and text me later?"

"Me and my fake pants are gonna kick your ass." Dorothy chuckled, "Ow. Dammit, quit making me laugh! Talk to you tonight."

The phone clinked as Dorothy hung up. Sam pulled in next to Dean's pickup, rubbing the balls of his thumbs on the steering wheel as he dredged up the will to go inside. The lack of communication from his brother last night meant Dean probably guessed where he was. It also meant he either didn't care (not fucking likely), or was pissed. Sam fretted over the possibilities for a few minutes, then decided it didn't matter. He paid for half the utilities, the groceries and the property taxes. He was an adult, and this was his home too, per Bobby's will and the signatures on the paperwork.

Sam heard the burble of the coffeemaker in the kitchen as he kicked off his boots in the front hall. Dean was awake, which at least meant Sam didn't have to feel guilty about waking him up. He gave the kitchen a wide berth and charged up the stairs, only to almost collide with Dean at the top. "Whoa," was all Dean said, sidestepping him short of impact. He went on downstairs afterward, leaving Sam alone in the upstairs hall.

Surprised - and not as relieved as he thought he'd be by the lack of confrontation - Sam made a beeline for the shower.

Through the hiss of the water, Sam felt the front door bang shut; heard Dean's pickup growl to life.

The fact that Dean seemed just as determined to avoid him made the morning strangely anticlimactic. The whole process was easier than he'd expected it to be, but somehow that made it feel worse. Deep down under the skin of it, Sam was scared by it. Dean was a catastrophic failure at administering the silent treatment. Oh, he tried; but the urge towards sarcasm always proved stronger. This shutdown was out of character, and Sam didn't know what to do with it. He remembered Dean's declaration on Wednesday night. Was this Dean making good on staying out of Sam's life?

He blew out a breath and yanked open his sock drawer. Hadn't he been afraid to walk in his own house because of Hurricane Dean? If his brother was serious about respecting Sam's privacy, he ought to be popping champagne bottles. Not acting like a melodramatic jackass.

But it wasn't right. Sam knew he couldn't spin this any way his conscience would accept. Talking about it with his brother right now, however, would be like pushing on a bruise. Sam decided to let it play out for now. He had plenty to worry about in every other part of his life. If Dean was still ignoring him by the end of the weekend, he'd find a way to deal with it.

There was another college letter on the table; this one conspicuously alone. It hadn't been opened, but the statement was clear: Dean knew what it was about.

Not that it mattered. Sam slit it open, scanned it, and chucked it in the recycling. Another polite denial. Two down, one to go. He scraped up his stomach from the kitchen floor and made it to work with a few minutes to spare.

Friday was booked solid with appointments, but all routine. Shots, teeth cleaning, one likely case of ear mites, two kittens dropped off to be neutered. Sam was too busy to look up for most of the day, completely missing Castiel's afternoon check-in until the man was practically on top of him.

"Hello, Sam," Castiel said, his voice kiss-warm and vibrating in Sam's chest even though he was three feet away. Sam's head shot up from updating the appointment schedule, to see Castiel learning on the counter across from him. At Sam's stupefied expression, Castiel flashed one of the most heart-shattering smiles he'd ever seen, and took his iPad out of his satchel.

"The scheduler was having some problems syncing this morning," Castiel said, "but I was in Stronghurst." Reception issues occurred there with such frequency that sometimes Sam suspected supernatural interference. Then again, the city was surrounded by high hills. "Would you mind logging this into the wifi for me? I'll pick it up before I head back out."

Still preoccupied by that smile, Sam dragged his brain out of this coming Saturday night with a struggle. He took the iPad and shook his head at himself. "Sure thing. I think there was only one update for you this morning."

"The Dreyer Ranch," Castiel replied with a nod and a knowing look, "I hear they're replacing the barbed wire."

The news made Sam's heart squeeze a little. "Oh. Yeah. I did a little research on federal grants; turns out there's state money available for fence improvement. Dean suggested it at Pebbles' followup."

"Dean did?" Castiel sounded genuinely surprised.

Sam rolled his shoulders. "I guess he must have," he said, and left the rest of the subject on the field.

A few moments of quiet passed, as Castiel waited for the elaboration that definitely wasn't coming. "I didn't get the update," he blurted eventually, "but Dean called me. He seemed subdued."

Sam turned his attention to the iPad. "Yeah, I don't know. He was on his way out when I got home."

Castiel got the message, and changed the subject quickly. "I'll be back for that in about fifteen minutes. Thank you, Sam."

And there was that warm, tangible tone, as if the words brushed Sam's skin. He looked up, locked onto the earnest blue eyes and felt his cheeks and chest flush as if Castiel had leaned over the desk and kissed him. It took five minutes for Sam to get himself back in line (including a swell of heat below the belt that made him grateful for the counter between him and the lobby). And that? That was just a frankly unacceptable level of ridiculous for someone in their mid-twenties.

That said, it did plenty to distract him from the refusal letter in the trash. If Sam didn't feel _better_ per se, when the flush and the spike of arousal subsided he felt calmer. Peaceful. Buffered.

Castiel came back through for his iPad, promptly fucking up all of Sam's hard-fought control. A guy hadn't made him this dizzy since high school, Sam thought with a frustrated huff at himself. On top of that, he caught the hint of a smirk creasing Castiel's face as he turned for the door. Whatever the bastard was doing to him, Sam had no doubt it was on purpose.

If he didn't like the feeling so much, he'd be pissed.

Well, maybe 'pissed' was a little strong. Annoyed. Definitely annoyed. If he was. Which he wasn't, because just the thought of Castiel being able to wreck him with his voice made Sam's heart flutter and his stomach do gymnastics. It made him feel wild. Like this was as much his blooming spring as the trees outside.

Charlie stepped out of Exam Room A with a young bulldog and his human in tow, a few minutes after Castiel left for the afternoon. She leaned against the edge of the counter while Sam scheduled the puppy for his second round of parvo vaccine.

When he was done, Charlie tapped the counter. "I'm going to start prepping for Jeeves and Wooster, ready to scrub in?" she asked, indicating the pair of kittens scheduled to be neutered. Sam nodded, finished up what he was doing, and flicked the lock on the lobby door before following Charlie back to the surgery.

"Have you started looking for a new tech?" Sam asked, as he scrubbed his hands at the sink, and pulled on a pair of gloves. At the other end of the counter, Jeeves and Wooster - a pair of black and white tuxedo kittens - watched him wide-eyed and poked their paws through the door of their carrier.

"Not yet," Charlie said, measuring out doses of sedative, "This week, I promise."

"It's Friday." Sam opened the carrier door, wriggling his fingers to lure the kittens out on the counter. They fit perfectly in his hands, their bodies light and vibrating with purrs the minute he picked them up.

"Oh, it is. You're right. _Frak_ ," Charlie sighed, and waved Sam and his charges over to the stainless steel table. He steadied them while she dosed them, then helped her arrange the tiny masks for the gas that would nudge the kittens into sleep.

"I know you're going crazy," Charlie went on, gloved and bending over the kittens with her tools, "I guess I just kind of hoped she'd come back. I know that's epic stupid, I mean, I broke up with her, right? I wouldn't blame her if she left sacks of flaming dog poop at my door."

Sam spritzed Wooster's backside with sterile solution and kept his eyes on the gas while Charlie did her work. Figuring Wooster would appreciate Charlie's full concentration, Sam waited until the cuts were made before asking, "Do you want that? I mean, do you want her to come back?"

Charlie's forceps paused. "I um. I may have, um. Called her? This afternoon? She didn't answer. I mean, I deserve that. But I guess the answer to your question is, yes?"

Sam removed Wooster's mask and slipped to the other side of the table to assist as Charlie moved on to Jeeves. They worked together in silence for a few minutes, unhooking Jeeves from the gas as well and stitching up both kittens' incisions.

"I don't do this," Charlie said, "I don't 'date.' But it's Dot. It's like she opened a door, and everything went from black and white to color like this was _The Wizard of Oz_. For once I could be me. Not Pet Heroes Barbie. Not Captain Marvel. _Me_. And I could have it. I could actually _have_ that. But that meant I needed to admit I actually _wanted_ that. And I _freaked_. You know?"

Sam laughed. He knew. He knew exactly. "Pet Heroes Barbie?"

"Shut up," Charlie retorted, laughing too, and tied off her thread. "Okay. Let's move these guys to the back and get them some water."


	17. Chapter 17

By six on Friday night, Sam needed a shot of caffeine more than dinner. His late night at Castiel's place caught up with him around two in the afternoon, compounded by the chaos of the busy clinic. By closing, he felt the exhaustion like lead weights in his pockets. But Dorothy's emoji abuse that afternoon returned to pre-Charlie levels, as she reported the acquisition of 'real' pants, which gave him the shove he needed to change clothes and cross the river to Burlington.

When Dorothy worked at the clinic, she'd been an exception, commuting every morning from Iowa. Her apartment building was an ancient former hotel, hovering over the fringes of the city's downtown district. Burlington seemed to shed its skin like a snake; everything in this town had been something else at one point. Churches had been movie theaters. Clinics had been motorcycle shops. And motorcycle shops had once been grocery stores.

People who lived there longer than ten years had an annoying habit of navigating by these former lives. Probably because the only people who asked them for directions were old enough to remember. Everyone else used Google Maps.

Dorothy folded up crosslegged on a bench in front of the apartment building, in a loose, sleeveless yellow jumpsuit Sam had never seen before. She popped up as Sam arrived, and lunged at the pickup, belt jingling, soft pant cuffs fluttering around her ankles. "God, I swear I've opened the same app six times. I'm so bored."

"Sorry," Sam said, jumping down to the pavement, "am I that late? You look nice!"

Dorothy waved him off. "I've been bored for hours. I'm just glad to see you!" She fell in step beside him as they strolled towards the riverfront. The streets were purple and hazy; tops of the buildings still rosy with sunset. "How's the cats? Nice picture in The Hawk Eye, by the way."

"Thanks," Sam answered, "they're doing great. That story in the paper helped the shelter a ton. They picked up the last two on Thursday."

Dorothy laughed. "Great big you with that skinny old geezer Marples, trying to shove her head under your chin? Oh my God. How did you not get fanmail?" Marples was a patiently ancient silver tabby cat with pronounced stripes around her eyes like cat-eye glasses.

"I gave them a fake address," Sam said with a grin.

"The shelter should hire you to take pictures with all of their animals. But they'd have to add a disclaimer: 'Display suggestion only. Hunk not included.'"

Sam made an incredulous noise. "Who uses that word?"

"What? You'd prefer hottie?" Dorothy teased, "Cutie-patootie? Man-candy?"

"Cut it out."

"Pretty boy? Stud muffin? A gentleman of fine countenance and good figure?"

Chuckling in spite of his blush, Sam elbowed Dorothy. She tottered sideways. "All right, all right!" Dorothy laughed, righting herself, "It's not my fault you're built like a fireman calendar pinup."

"I thought you were gay?"

In response, Dorothy elbowed him right back. "I know attractive when I see it; we've talked about this. I'm gay, not blind."

Distantly, Sam recalled the earlier conversation, and let the topic mull silently for a few minutes. Dorothy seemed content to do the same, while they waited at a crosswalk for the light to change.

"I don't know why it's so hard to process that," Sam muttered in frustration, on the other side of the intersection.

Dorothy bounced up the steps to the restaurant and held the door for him. "You have a shit fit whenever Dean pigeonholes you," she said, without accusation, and shrugged, "it's a human thing to do. Put people in boxes, I mean. It just kinda surprises me when you do it."

The restaurant lobby was dim, paneled in honey-colored lumber and smelled like woodsmoke. When Dorothy rejoined Sam at the hostess stand, he leaned towards her, pitching his voice to carry. "Sorry."

Dorothy smiled at him. "Thanks. Buy me dinner and we're even."

They chose a table on the patio, unable to resist one of the first warm nights of the year. Sam sank back in his chair and took a sip of his soda, eyes on the steel-colored river. Dorothy didn't seem all that interested in talking as the first drinks arrived, focused instead on the little speedboats trawling back and forth beneath the bridge to Illinois. Sam chose not to fight the quiet, and let it soak into him.

Dorothy's hair was longer than Sam remembered. She never wore it down at the clinic for good reason, but he could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen her without a neat, cinnamon-roll bun or a tightly braided crown. It fell down her back in waves, black against the bright yellow fabric of her halter top.

With a shy grin, Dorothy caught him. "Yeah, I know," she muttered, "I'm a flower crown short of Coachella. Not me at all, is it?"

"Different," Sam admitted after a moment of hesitation, "but not, _not_ you. You look nice," he added for safety's sake.

"I don't feel nice," Dorothy answered. "I feel like I could cut Charlie's brake lines and move to Goa. I'm not actually gonna _do_ it," she amended as Sam's eyebrows shot up.

"Okay, good?" Sam laughed, "I had to lock the door this afternoon just so I could scrub in on a procedure. If you murder her, I will lose my mind."

Their server arrived - predictably - just in time to hear him. She let out a socially appropriate chuckle, behind which Sam imagined her making mental notes on their descriptions for the cops. When she finished taking their orders and moved on, Dorothy shook her head. "Super telling that you're more worried about a murder making extra work for you. I don't know what, but it's telling."

"Nothing good," Sam said with a shake of his head and a smile. His phone chimed, buzzing the glass tabletop. He turned it over, smiled deepening as a message from Castiel floated up his lock screen.

> _Tonight is your dinner with Dorothy, yes? Please give her my regards._

Sam's eyes dragged up from the phone to spot Dorothy's measuring look.

"That's quite an expression," Dorothy teased. Like she not only knew who it was, but also that just seeing the name in his messages gave Sam the good shivers.

Pleasure and panic soared through Sam at the possibility that Castiel's effect on him was so visible. "Cas says hi," he said, and put the phone facedown again - at which point it rattled the table. Sam tried not to look at it, and picked up his soda instead.

Dorothy cocked an eyebrow. "You're not gonna get that?"

"Not right now."

The phone buzzed again.

"Could be a sext." Dorothy sat back, sucking on her soda straw with the smug satisfaction of a cat on a warm windowsill.

Embarrassed heat - and arousal, yeah, don't forget that, crotch - roared across Sam's skin.

"Go for it, Sam. A picture of his junk could be on your phone. Right. Now," Dorothy added helpfully.

A basket of fried cauliflower slid onto their table.

"I'll be—right back with your salads," the server said, ever professional, and vanished. Probably on her way to notify security. As if to underline the plausibility of Dorothy's theory, the phone vibrated one more time.

"If you don't get that, I will," Dorothy challenged, "I bet he sexts in perfect Oxford English."

It was an empty threat, but Sam picked up the phone anyway, reading the three texts that were, indeed, from Castiel.

Whether or not they counted as 'sexts' depended on your definition.

> _You refuse to leave my thoughts, Sam Winchester. I don't want to distract you from your evening, but please know that you have my full attention._
> 
> _Actually, that's obtuse. Let me be more clear. I want you. I want more of you, and I don't want to wait until Saturday night._
> 
> _I'm on my way upstairs to burn off some of this frustration. I hope the sheets still hold your scent._

"Oh my God," Dorothy folded her elbows on the table and grinned at Sam's flaming cheeks, "he _did_ , didn't he? You're _adorable_. Well, what are you waiting for?" she made a shooing gesture, "Sext him back. Don't keep a man waiting."

Flustered, Sam wavered back and forth between doing just that and hiding the phone under his thigh. "I get what Charlie sees in you," Sam laughed, then caught himself in horror a second later. "Oh, fuck. I'm sorry."

Dorothy's expression sobered in an instant, gone to something hungry and searching as she looked him over, then away. "Does she, though?" Dorothy asked, squeezing the back of her neck like it hurt, "Did she say something? I got a voicemail from her today but I'm scared to look at it." She froze as the words escaped, then covered her eyes. "God, _I'm_ sorry, This is pathetic."

Their salads arrived as Sam considered his options. "It's not," he said eventually, "it's only been a few days, you know? Cut yourself some slack."

Dorothy slumped over her soda, stirring the straw in listless circles. "I can't though, Sam. I mean, I know why she dumped me. Maybe I'm pissed enough to punch her, but I can't blame her. I put her up on a pedestal. I treated her like a goal, not a person. She was my Eleanor."

"Your Eleanor?"

" _Gone in 60 Seconds_ , Sam. My unicorn. My Mr. Darcy. My manic pixie dream girl."

With a spike of loyal outrage, Sam nudged her with his knee. "I didn't see that. It was her decision, Dot. Whatever happened. Leaving was her choice."

"Dude, don't defend me. You knew I was crazy. You were probably trying to warn me off the whole time." Dorothy turned to her salad, picked up her fork and stabbed a slice of cucumber on the edge of the plate. "Thing was, after we got together, I realized I liked who she was. Who she _really_ was. She's the first person who saw things the same way as me. Like, reality isn't a movie, I know. But epic quests, true loves, happy endings? I could walk around a corner any minute and there's my Alice, with a one-way ticket to Wonderland. Who doesn't want to believe those things are out there?"

With nothing to offer but a willing ear, Sam listened.

"So I guess I sort of—got in too deep, too fast for her. Even before that, I was treating it like—like if I just carried that damned torch long enough, eventually the writers would run out of other romance plots for Charlie and write me in." Dorothy rolled the croutons across her salad, "We had different ideas. I thought I'd be a series regular. Tara to her Willow. But she must have wanted a one-episode thing."

"Okay, impressive metaphor," Sam said, leaning in, "But do you want to be the Tara to _anyone's_ Willow?"

"Oh. Well, no," Dorothy said, then with more emphasis as she considered the endgame, " _Hell_ no."

"I can't speak for Charlie. But look, she asked you out, right?"

Dorothy nodded, giving him that searching look again.

"She did care about you. That wasn't a script. That was all her," Sam continued with more confidence, "Because you're right. Reality isn't a movie. I don't know about the epic quest thing, but you get to make your own decisions."

"I don't know if I follow," Dorothy said, tipping her head.

Sam crunched a forkful of salad and clarified. "Good or bad, Charlie's choices weren't because of a crappy script. Neither are yours. And there's _still_ no script: you get to decide what to do now."

Dorothy stared at her plate like the smears of dressing were magic runes. "Like listen to her voicemail," she said slowly.

Determined not to sway her one way or another, Sam shrugged. "Whatever you want to do."

Silence closed in and they allowed it to stay, eating quietly together in their own separate circle of thoughts. It was Dorothy who broke the quiet eventually, when the salad plates were empty. "So, um. Speaking of that. Been meaning to tell you all night."

"Yeah?"

"I called around. To see if anyone needed a vet tech."

Sam leaned forward, brows up. "And?" he prodded.

"Got a nibble. Fifth Street Clinic. Allison McConnell remembered me from the rescue call."

"Yeah. Doctor McDreamy, right?" Sam said with a chuckle.

Dorothy dropped her head, failing to hide her smile. "Yeah. I mean, no, guess I should stop calling her that. But she said, if I want to come work for them, they've got space. And I think I do?"

Grinning, Sam snapped up his drink. He held it high. "That's awesome, Dot! Congratulations!"

"Well I don't have the job _yet_ ," Dorothy protested with a laugh, tipping her glass to clink against Sam's, "but thanks. This sounds crazy when I say it to myself, but I'm going to say it anyway: maybe now that I'm out of the clinic, Charlie and I could figure it out. If not— either way, I need to not be her Girl Friday anymore. Like you said. I need to make my own story."

The remainder of dinner veered away from rough topics, while traffic wound around the patio in slow waves. The streetlights fizzed on, lighting the steeples of half a dozen churches along the city hills.

Halfway through his fries, Sam texted Castiel back. _Can I come over tonight?_

The answer was an emphatic, graphic yes.

In perfect Oxford English.


	18. Chapter 18

Sam walked with Dorothy back to her apartment building a little after midnight. Smokers lounged in the entryway, cigarette butts glowing red as Dorothy said goodnight. The smell of smoke lingered on Sam's clothes as he climbed into his truck, every nerve ending buzzing with anticipation.

This addiction wasn't new. Was pretty much the only thing about Castiel _not_ new. Sam's skin remembered his rough fingertips and smooth palms. It reminded him, with a gentle, nagging not-quite ache, that more waited out there for the having. His skin remembered being seen, all of him. Being wanted and drawn in close. The craving after it made him do stupid shit in the past, and that hadn't changed. Someone wanted him. The fact that it was Castiel, out there waiting in the night to kiss him and peel him out of his clothes, made it impossibly better.

Sam turned down the Carman blacktop and into the dark beyond the urban lights, windows cracked open to the breeze. Green swampy smells spilled in from the fields and drainage ditches alongside the road. He'd always liked the trip from Burlington to Lomax; had traveled it so many times, it was more security blanket than asphalt. The flooded fields, scrubby timber and empty squares of trees where houses had been scrolled past, marked by the intermittent orange glow of road signs.

A night bird jetted out of the brush, wings flashing silver in the headlights. When a dark shape darted up from the ditch after it, Sam almost didn't see it. Almost didn't believe it could be real.

He slammed on the brakes, tires screeching, but not quick enough to avoid the awful thump. He pulled over, left the pickup running and jumped out, terrified of what he'd find.

Slumped on the center line and soaked in the red of Sam's taillights was a massive dog. Nausea rolled Sam's stomach. "Hi boy," he murmured, approaching slowly, eyes darting up and down the highway for headlights. "You okay? Don't—don't be dead, all right?"

The dog didn't respond. Heart in his throat, Sam leaned down to touch it, stroking its head, shoulder and flank. The ribcage rose and fell in rapid breaths; heart thundered against Sam's palm. Everywhere he touched, the fur was spiky with dried mud.

As he did, a pair of headlights crested the hill in the oncoming lane.

Sam cast a glance between his truck and the dog. There could be spinal injury, but he didn't have anything in the truck to serve as a backboard, and no time to call for help.

He sprang for the tailgate, letting the heavy metal flap fall with a gunshot crash as he turned on his heel, and ran for the dog.

Somehow, between then and now, the distance between him and the onrushing car had halved. Sam squatted, prayed for strength, and hauled the injured animal into his arms. It was even heavier than he'd guessed. The headlights drilled sunspots across his vision, right at eye level and bearing down on him with terrifying speed.

He shoved himself to his feet with a rush of fear that made his whole body feel weightless, and spun away.

The driver went wide, sounding their horn as they passed.

The sound exploded in Sam's ear, dopplering away as the wind of the car's passing pushed him, and whiffled his shirt.

Adrenaline singing in his blood, Sam lowered his burden into the bed of the pickup. The dog was still unresponsive, but continued to breathe. It wasn't crushed, at least. He must have knocked it out cold.

Sam's first aid equipment was in a bag lodged behind the driver's seat. He thought about it, but with the clinic less than five minutes away, he took a gamble and slammed the tailgate up. His hands slipped on the rails like they were wet, and when he looked down at himself by the dome light in the cab, Sam saw smears of dark red all the way up his arms and down his shirt.

Shit.

Wiping his hand across his chest, Sam started the truck and snatched for his phone on the passenger seat.

Dean answered on the second ring, in a room full of tavern noise. "Yeah?"

"I just hit a dog," Sam panted, shoving the truck into drive and throwing gravel as he tore away from the shoulder, "I'm almost to the clinic, can you meet me?"

"It's alive?" Dean said. Sam could hear things sliding and banging over the phone. A second later, he heard a truck door slam shut.

"Yeah, right now," Sam replied.

"Meet you there," Dean said, and hung up.

At some point in the back of Sam's truck, the dog regained consciousness. It whined - and wagged its tail with feeble goodwill - but didn't struggle. Getting it into the surgery was an intricate waltz of doorknobs and light switches, but Sam managed.

Under the bright lights of the surgery, he was finally able to take a closer look. The sight made his throat tighten with guilt.

The dog was a mess. She was clearly headed into shock, with a hide hung in tatters along her cheek and temple, ribs and hip. Her joints were skinned red and bloody in several places, one eye already swelling shut.

Sam froze, a life full of failures strewn out in his path like landmines. This dog was going to die. He could have come home early. He could have stayed with Dorothy. He could have paid more attention. Hell, he could have insisted on going to grad school, instead of letting fear and ever-present guilt ride him. At least then, he'd have the skills to save her.

Unaware of Sam's sundry failings, the dog trained her one good eye on him with the kind of faith only a dog can give. She whined again, her muddy flag of a tail dusting the table.

His fault or not, the dog was going to die without help.

Sam took a deep breath and yanked himself together.

She needed him. She couldn't wait for someone else.

He picked up a penlight and a spare stethoscope and got to work. The fear didn't magically dissolve, but slid into background noise as he took the dog's vitals and set up her oxygen mask.

By the time he heard the clinic door jingle, he had an IV in, pushing fluids to treat her obvious shock. Sam finished pushing the X-Ray cart to the table and turned to the surgery door, ready to reel off the dog's vitals to Dean.

He paused. "Cas?"

Castiel looked disheveled, in flower printed flip flops and a tee shirt with a ragged collar and a liberal splash of white house paint down the front. He clapped Sam on the shoulder and pulled him into a hug, regardless of the blood on Sam's shirt. "Are you all right?" Castiel asked, face muffled in Sam's neck. The comfort was too much, overwhelming, and Sam jerked away as his careful self-control started to crumble.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," Sam said with a swallow, swiping at his eyes with his sleeve, "what are you doing here? I was going to call, I—"

"I called him," Dean said, coming in behind Castiel, "and before you go all dewy-eyed, I tried Charlie first. She didn't answer."

"She was out," Castiel replied, releasing Sam. He didn't elaborate further, but walked past him to the table where the dog lay, still breathing rapidly but no worse than before. "Condition?"

Sam gave them all the details he had, as he positioned the X-Ray over the lightly sedated dog. Castiel helped him, while Dean moved to her head to check the dog's IV and the fit of the mask feeding her oxygen. He grabbed a cottonball to swipe away the drool collecting in the mask.

It was pink.

"Did you clear her throat?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded. "She was clear when I brought her in. She had a little blood in her mouth then too. I cleaned it up and checked for lacerations. Nothing. Lungs?"

"Her breathing's ticking up," Castiel observed.

Sam pulled up the X-Ray laptop's viewing software as the others crowded around. The dog's chest and thorax lit up on the screen, hazy and ghost-white. Sam's chest squeezed in sympathy, and a fresh wave of guilt to see the damage he'd caused. He zoomed in on the ribcage. "Cracked some ribs."

Over Sam's shoulder, Castiel studied the screen. "Dean? Take a look at the lung."

"Yeah, yeah, I see it," Dean replied. He leaned closer to the laptop, steadying himself with a hand on Sam's opposite shoulder. "That's definitely blood."

"Looks like a pulmonary contusion," Sam hazarded. Meaning bruised lungs. Meaning he'd hit her hard enough to break her ribs and make her lungs bleed.

On either side of Sam's head, Dean and Castiel nodded, agreeing about something for possibly the first time in current memory. Sam thought he'd fallen into the Twilight Zone.

"Good call with the oxygen," Dean said, squeezing Sam's shoulder, "you said she hit her head too, but she was tracking you and wagging her tail?"

"Before I sedated her for the X-Rays. Yeah, that's about it," Sam replied, privately thinking no, I hit her head. She didn't do it herself.

Dean nodded. "All right. Keep on keepin' on. It's gonna get bad as the bruising flares up, but I've seen dogs come back from a lot worse. Vitals every fifteen, start painkillers and antibiotics, clean her up and stitch her up. I'll put a call in to Fifth Street in case things get out of hand here." He met Sam's eyes then, and some of the internal misery must have telegraphed there. He squeezed the back of Sam's neck. "Doing great, Sam. Glad you didn't wait for us. It's not like you ran her down, all right? And hey, she picked the right truck. Someone else might have left her. She's alive 'cause of you."

Castiel's phone rang. He glanced at the Caller ID. "It's Charlie," he said, "I'll be right back," and headed for the door.

"Yo Cas," Dean called out, "you staying?"

Castiel turned back and nodded gravely at him, the phone already on his ear. "Of course."

Sam pushed away from the laptop and rolled the X-Ray cart back to its spot. Might as well take the next round of vitals before he started cleaning her up. Focus on the task at hand. Don't screw up. Don't get distracted. She was Sam's responsibility. The thoughts cycled until they turned into a rough mantra, playing on repeat like a really shitty motivational CD, while he swabbed away the blood and the mud. Her flank saw the worst of the degloving - meaning her skin had been ripped loose where she'd skidded along the asphalt after Sam hit her. Shreds of hide there were missing. They were probably still lying on the road that peeled them off.

He'd barely started stitching her up, when he heard the dry skid of casters as a stool rolled up to the table. Dean sat across from him, wielding a cupful of cotton swabs, disinfectant spray and another suture kit. "Cas says Charlie's on her way," Dean said, meeting Sam's eyes briefly before he got to work on the dog's face wounds, "Fifth Street's on notice. They got another collision in tonight, so it's all hands on deck over there right now. Our girl's gonna be in good hands if it goes bad."

Sam clenched his jaw, annoyed at the worst-case scenario that invited itself into his head and shimmied over his mantra wall, however shitty, "You think it will?" He said after a swallow. He heard Dean shrug.

"Could go either way," Dean said, "but seriously, I've seen worse. When Charlie and I first bought the clinic, someone brought in this spaniel? He'd gotten creamed on the blacktop; his insides were bleeding from just about everywhere you could. I thought for sure he was a goner - from blood loss if he didn't drown."

The description jiggled a memory loose for Sam, who looked up at Dean with recognition. "You borrowed Rumsfeld for that," he said, thinking of Bobby's ancient mastiff. The dog hung around for several years after Bobby's passing. Before following his master into the dark, he'd been a lifeline for Sam; bridging the gap of isolation and loneliness while Dean finished grad school.

Dean paused, and huffed a fond laugh. "Yeah. I remember. Joke of a guard dog, but he sat there and let me bleed him like a champ. Saved that spaniel's life. And hey, our girl here's not near that bad." He snipped off a thread. "Done her vitals?"

Sam checked the clock. "Time for it."

"I got it," Dean volunteered, getting up.

Thirty minutes later, Charlie arrived, and the dog was worse. Sam barely noticed the people swirling around the table, like he and the dog were at the center of a human tornado. They reassured him that she wasn't doing that badly, that the bruising was making it hard for her to breathe but hadn't worsened. He knew, but he still strained with every struggling breath. She was still breathing on her own. They hadn't needed to tube her. It was a good sign. A good sign he couldn't make himself believe in. Sam scruffed behind the dog's good ear and willed her to take an upswing soon.

Finally, near four in the morning, gentle hands squeezed his shoulders and rolled his stool away from the table. "Sam, go lay down," Castiel ordered him quietly, sliding his hand through Sam's hair, "the couch in Dean's office."

Sam shook his head. His brain kept moving after he'd stopped, sloshing in a warm pool of exhaustion.

"You were asleep when I came in," Castiel murmured, without judgment, "I'll wake you up in fifteen."

The guilt piled up and poured over in a gush, unstoppered by Sam's exhaustion and the caring hands. "I'm sorry," he slurred, scrubbing his eyes, "I screwed everything."

Sam braced himself for the platitudes, expecting reassurance and ready to resist it.

Instead, he got an arm close around his neck, and lips at his ear.

"Not everything," Castiel whispered, so close that his breath tickled the inside of Sam's ear. Warmth flooded Sam's skin and he twisted to look up in surprise.

"How are you not pissed," Sam said, blank, "You lost your shit over a barbed wire fence. _I hit a dog_."

Castiel's eyes were sympathetic. "I certainly hope you're not driving with the intent to run down small animals. If you are - for God's sake, aim for the squirrels."

His thumb stroked Sam's cheek.

"I was in the habit of judging people," Castiel continued, "Then, someone whose opinion I value told me the following, which I try to keep in mind even when I think his optimism is horseshit: you're good people, Sam. You're not perfect. But you try hard."

Sam swallowed hard, and choked on a wet laugh. Forgiving himself wasn't even on the table, yet; 'trying hard' didn't excuse what he'd done. But something in Castiel's words hit him where he lived - his own words, actually, Sam recognized them from that awful day at the Dreyer Ranch. He felt a little better.

"And you're no use to our girl if you're asleep at the wheel," Castiel added.

Hands up in defeat, Sam let himself be steered to Dean's office.

Our girl, Castiel said. Just like Dean. Our girl.

Sam curled his arms around one of Dean's couch pillows, and passed out with an illogical phantom sense of being held.


	19. Chapter 19

Almost exactly one week later, Sam was going to die.

Summer seemed determined to make up for lost time. Even this early in the morning, the Western Illinois humidity and heat felt like breathing through a wet towel. Sweat poured down Sam's face as he ran, mouth gaping like a landed fish with every breath. His shirt soaked through and clung to his back, which should have cooled him at least a little. Had there been even a hint of wind.

There were two bright spots to this Saturday morning grind. For one, Castiel's footsteps pounded in sync with his. Having a regular workout buddy was a welcome change. Point of fact - they were on the last leg of the longest jog of Sam's life, and he was only mildly worried about having a heart attack any minute.

For another, it was clear Castiel suffered just as much. He struggled not to hyperventilate. A darker sweat ring collared his shirt and ran down his chest like a bib. "Sam, spare my life," he begged, "I don't got this."

Sam slowed to a walk, bursts of laughter between gasps.

As Castiel came abreast again, he nosed for the sky, swallowing gulps of air like a thirsty man with a bottle of water. "Your legs are longer than mine," he complained.

"You weren't upset about that last night," Sam retorted with a smirk, earning himself a shove as he took a drag from his water bottle. Castiel's palm stuck to his bare shoulder for a split second, glued by sweat and sunscreen.

With a disgusted noise, Castiel swiped both hands on his shirt. "I need a shower. I smell like a canal horse."

"Canal horse?" Sam echoed, curious, and offered Castiel his water bottle. Five minutes later, he'd caught his breath, run out of curiosity, and stopped listening to Castiel's dissertation on the history of the Erie Canal - and canal horses, by association. The Winchesters' front porch just peeked through trees that cut cool holes in the sun. Sam and Castiel migrated to the shade without thinking about it, saying little as the explanation ended. Tiny, warm looks slipped between them in the silence, until Sam's weak-kneed emptiness of a long run mattered just a little less.

"Got another rejection letter yesterday," he said, apropos of nothing, and because he'd have to at some point. He met the look Castiel shot him with a philosophical shrug. "That's the last of them."

Castiel tipped his head. "You seem less upset than I would expect."

Sam stretched his arms over his head, fingers interlocked. "I've had a lot of time to think it over," Sam replied wryly.

"But you said it came yesterday," Castiel said, confusion writ so large Sam couldn't help but grin. He reached for his water bottle again with a huffed laugh.

"I meant grad school," Sam clarified, "not the letter. I don't know, just, I mean I could have done a better job with those applications."

"Why didn't you?"

"I was pissed at you?" Sam laughed, turning his eyes to the river at his left, "And Dean. And afraid that I'd just settled for something. Afraid I'd be washing shit off Labradoodles for the rest of my life." He felt a hand on his shoulder blade, and looked back, into Castiel's worried eyes.

"I'm afraid of that as well," Castiel said, with so much grave concern that it hit a nerve and Sam's funny bone at the same time.

He laughed, not sure what else to do and because he couldn't really stop it, "What?"

"I believe you are capable of so much more, Sam," Castiel said, urgent, "while an incredibly competent veterinarian technician, you successfully diagnosed and saved the life of a dog this week."

"Which I hit. With my truck."

Turning an eye to the sky, Castiel's expression tightened with frustration. "You also saved a mare and foal from a difficult birth, countless calves on night watch with me, and an entire herd of bloated cattle. All without a doctorate or a veterinary practice license."

"So it's a good thing none of them died," Sam quipped, "or we'd all be in deep shit."

Castiel grimaced. "My original intent was to point out that you're hardly 'just' anything."

Sam smiled, touched by his loyalty. "And in between the heroics, I took care of everyone who came through the clinic. I made things better. Plus, I realized I do have skills worth appreciating. Vet techs aren't superstars, but what I'm doing now isn't 'just' anything, either. It matters."

"I'm not saying that, I'm—" Castiel trailed off, and flung his arms with a helpless huff.

"Yeah you are," Sam replied, laughing at his discomfort, "but I get it. Look, I'm not saying I'm giving up on grad school. I just think — filling out college apps while pissed and terrified and kind of drunk only worked at eighteen. Now, I need a plan. I haven't hit on anything solid yet, but I'm thinking about going back to school closer to home. Starting there. Maybe U of I. Maybe Western."

The cloudy worry vanished from Castiel's eyes. He surveyed Sam quietly, then gave a resolute nod. "Good. If I can be of assistance, please let me know."

Sam's first instinct was to dissemble; to laugh. Instead, he leaned over, pressing his lips to Castiel's temple. He smelled like metal; like sweat and body funk and a hint of woodsmoke. "I will," he said, "and you know, you're right?"

"About?"

"You _do_ need a shower."

Laughing, Castiel pushed him off. "Well, I'd resolve that, if you boys didn't require a stepladder for every single showerhead in your home." He'd been forced to borrow their shower Tuesday, after being called in to assist with the neighbor's colicking miniature pony. A pony that could still put out an impressive, uh, _output_ , despite its small size. He'd insisted on scrubbing the tub out afterwards, but the bathroom still smelled faintly of horseshit.

"As opposed to the yoga pose I have to do to wash my hair in _your_ bathroom?" Sam teased.

Castiel rolled his eyes. "It would also be less of an issue if I didn't have to change the setting to avoid being disemboweled."

Without a shred of mercy, Sam snickered. "My shoulders are always tight. I like the needle setting."

"'Needle'? With your water pressure, it's amazing you haven't been skinned," Castiel replied with a shake of his head. Prodded by responsibility, they abandoned the shade at last and plodded up the sidewalk to the front porch of the Winchester house. Sam's truck sat alone in the driveway.

Tired as he was, Sam couldn't resist goosing Castiel as they scaled the porch steps. "I could help," he offered in a whisper, "wouldn't need a ladder. Could make sure everything's copacetic."

With a smirk, Castiel turned and looped an arm around his waist. His fingertips fitted into the hollow of Sam's back, stroking lightly beneath his shirt. "The man who told me I needed a shower doesn't get to screw me in it," he replied, eyes full of suggestion, voice warm as honey in Sam's stomach, "you'll have to wait. My place, seven?"

Sam shook his head. "I want to, but I still need to keep an eye on our patient. Dean's watching her today. I can come over for a while after we close, though," he offered.

"All right. Five-Thirty. I'll just have to make good with the time I have," Castiel replied. His words were a purr, and Sam's stomach flipped over in anticipation.

He still didn't know what to do, sometimes, with this feeling of being wanted. It made him feel clean. And maybe a little frightened at the same time, if he was honest. Okay, a lot frightened. He felt now the same way he'd felt in the truck with Castiel, the night they spent stargazing. Unhinged. Like he was capable of anything.

They parted with a look that dragged hot fingers down Sam's spine. When distance slipped Castiel's hand from the point of his hip, he wanted to step after it. But this was Saturday morning, and he had clinic hours whether he liked it or not.

Stepping into the cool dark of the foyer, Sam exhaled a laugh at himself. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, smiling, wrapped in soft summer night thoughts. A cool surge of adrenaline followed, as those thoughts made a recognizable pattern; a rhythm. And God, Sam knew this was more; more than just feeling wanted. But then again, how would he know? High school flattery and college lust were both like this, and carnation pale by comparison. He meditated on it through the soap and hot water, through a cobbled together breakfast, and spent the short trip to the clinic trying to put it into words. In the process, Sam gave himself such a case of embarrassed red face that even Charlie noticed when he walked in.

Mornings at the clinic were always busy, and Saturday was no exception; full of folks whose schedules left them no other day. Sam and Charlie were slammed from the moment they unlocked the door at eight, dispensing immunizations and heartworm medication, draining cysts, putting in stitches and pulling them out.

Charlie threw herself into the work like a woman possessed. She looked pale and drawn, eyes exhausted even when she smiled. Sam didn't press. Maybe Dorothy listened to that voicemail; made a decision that cut Charlie out of her script. Maybe she hadn't. He really hoped she hadn't.

Office Romance Switzerland, Sam reminded himself, before he could pole-vault to any conclusions.

As if she'd heard his thoughts, Dorothy texted Sam half an hour before the end of shift:

> _Clinic hours today, right? You guys close at 3?_

The text included a handful of loosely related emojis. Two cat faces, a dog, a big, red question mark, and an expression Sam could only describe as a 'kissy wink.'

Sam replied with an affirmative, cracked open a Mello Yello, and forgot about it.

A quarter after three, as Sam straightened the display racks, he heard the popping purr of an Indian motorcycle, dopplering into the parking lot. Music played, soft, and then louder.

The song jangled the back of Sam's memory, dragging forward a rush of nostalgia as it surfaced. Peter Gabriel's voice echoed, pleading, growing clearer.

Sam turned around.

In the middle of the parking lot, steps from the front door, was Dorothy's motorcycle, red and burnished as a cherry in the sun.

Dorothy stood by the front tire, in a band shirt and a trench coat too hot for a Midwestern June. Held high over her head was a boombox, silver and sharp, of the variety that shouldn't exist anymore outside of maybe Goodwill.

Inside the boombox's tape deck, the reels of a _Say Anything…_ soundtrack spun.

Behind a pair of Raybans, Dorothy's expression was defiant. An unsmiling contradiction to the soft devotion of the song that poured over the lot.

Sam shouted for Charlie.

She came into the lobby, questions stilling as the music - and the scene outside the blinds - reached her. Her hands went to her eyes, then her mouth, as she welded to the spot.

For once, she had no excuses. No prevarication. Nothing to say at all.

The pause lengthened, stretching while Peter Gabriel sang about a thousand churches and fruitless searches, and Sam considered opening the front door for her. Sweat beaded Dorothy's cheeks but she continued to stand, resolute and still until the boombox was somehow torch and shield and protest sign all together.

They could all feel the tension as the song built up to its end. Sam's chest tightened until he had to sip his breaths. He didn't know what to say; didn't know if he should speak at all. Wherever this scene went, Dorothy wrote her part in it, and it was hers alone.

The music wound down. Charlie exploded into motion, surging to the door and battering against it like a trapped bird. She slammed back the deadbolt and tore it open, flooding the lobby with sunset.

This wasn't like the movie, Sam thought, abstract, sagging in relief against the wall. He followed Charlie as far as the porch of the clinic and stopped there, arms crossed like he could somehow squeeze the tension out of his chest. It didn't end like the movie; because it wasn't one. It was theirs.

The boombox and the sunglasses hit the ground. Dorothy reached out, swung Charlie into her arms, trench coat fanning to wrap them both. They spoke in choked whispers, foreheads and hands together. Charlie scrubbed her eyes and buried her face in Dorothy's neck. Dorothy - when she eventually did look Sam's way - seemed luminous.

At the kiss, Sam slipped back inside, heart made of wings.

Even John Hughes might have approved.

He left as quietly as he could. By the time he closed the door, Charlie and Dorothy were sorting things out, holed up in Charlie's office. He didn't want to disturb them. Emotional overtures in the humidity were fine, but hard talks needed snacks and air conditioning.

The trip home alone felt anticlimactic; the radio annoying as nothing - especially nothing as prosaic as the weather report - could follow an act like Peter Gabriel in a vet clinic parking lot. Sam switched the stereo off, rolled down the windows and let the breeze and the tires sing. This was the part of the movie no-one ever saw; the hours after the sweeping finale, when someone went out for a burger, walked back to their car, or drove home with their own silence.

Restless energy burned. Sam shook himself all over, grinning sheepishly. It was tempting, so easy to fall into Charlie and Dorothy's spell. To believe that life was always secretly one left turn away from an epic adventure. Maybe they were right, though; maybe it was. It seemed to be working out okay for them right now. But waiting around for the quest to come sounded an awful lot like what Sam had been doing these past few years. He was ready to go out, chase that quest down, and throw himself in the saddle.

Dean waved from his seat on the porch swing as Sam pulled in. Sprawled beside him, bearing her Cone of Shame with a surprising level of dignity, was the dog they'd rescued a week ago. She was recuperating rapidly, lungs making enough progress by Tuesday for them to bring her home. The local authorities had been notified about her, but thus far no-one stepped up to claim her. Dean gave it the Old College Try to keep things all business, but given the scene on the porch tonight - and how Dean had named her 'Axel,' - Sam figured they'd have a new dog soon.

Things weren't exactly what Sam would call 'copacetic' around the Winchester house, though significantly better than last Saturday. Dean no longer seemed to avoid him, but his demeanor this week was weird. Nervous. Guarded. Then again, Sam could say the same thing about himself. Their world did a pretty crazy tilt shift. Maybe Dean was just as out of his depth at dealing with it as Sam. Maybe he was just as scared of shaking it up again.

Dean took hold of Axel's collar as Sam climbed the stairs to join them. He dropped his bag by the door and knelt in front of the dog on the porch swing, letting her wash his face with a broad, black-spotted pink tongue while her cone bumped his forehead. "She still doing okay?" he asked Dean, eyes shut tight.

"She's doing good. Went for a ride this morning, didn't you girl?" Dean asked. Axel looked up at the question in his voice, her tail thumping a gleeful rhythm. Sam buried his hands in the thick fur at her jowls and rubbed her ears at the roots, careful to avoid her stitches.

"And she's a holy fucking terror," Dean added, "About pulled my arms off. When she's up to snuff again, she's gonna be a freight train."

"At least we know I didn't give her brain damage," Sam replied, but couldn't hang onto a bad mood with Axel panting in his face.

"Nothing she didn't already have," grumbled Dean, reaching under the lip of the plastic cone to rub the back of Axel's head until her ears waggled and her eyes closed. The pang of guilt Sam felt softened around the edges a little more.

"Looks like Charlie and Dorothy are working things out," Sam reported, unable to contain the news any longer, "Dot stopped by as we were closing up."

"Good," Dean said with a shake of his head, "Allison called me today about Dot. Fifth Street's—"

"—bringing her onboard. I heard."

"Sounds like it. I had a talk with Charlie after Dot quit. But it's not like I could beat her up over the whole mess."

Sam nodded.

"Maybe things are finally gonna calm down. Between the four of you, every time I walked in the door it was like _Peyton Place_. Good thing my clients don't need office visits!"

Sheepish, Sam admitted the accuracy of that statement and rubbed his neck. "Sorry about that. All of it."

Dean let the conversation pause a beat or two. He leaned back, recrossing his ankles. "Yeah. About that," he said, the hesitation in his voice clear.

"You had lunch yet?" Sam asked, eager to shift the topic, "I know it's late, but if I don't eat I'm gonna crash."

Dean helped Axel to the floor and got to his feet. "I brought home a bucket from KFC, if you want. We left you some." He looked at Sam strangely, brow lines deeply furrowed, then led the way into the kitchen to retrieve the leftovers. Sam heaved a secret sigh of relief, until - bowl of gravy in hand - Dean dragged the conversation back to where he'd bookmarked it.

"Look, I'm not telling you to beat it," Dean said, "but Axel's got me; you didn't have to mope around here all week."

Sam stopped, spoonful of coleslaw paused midair. "It's fine, seriously; she's my responsibility," Sam protested, "I'm really glad you could take her today, though. She doesn't like the clinic."

Dean took a deep breath and put the gravy down carefully in the microwave. "Okay," he said, punching buttons with total focus, "so this isn't about pretending you're not dating Cas. Glad we straightened that out."

Sam tensed. He turned his back and scooped out coleslaw, breathing deeply. "What part of 'I hurt her and feel responsible,' do you not get?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

Nobody spoke. The microwave filled the silence as Sam and Dean moved to opposite halves of the kitchen. Like a pair of prizefighters ready to come out swinging. Sam thought about putting his plate down and walking out.

At the point of the kitchen perfectly equidistant from them both, Axel whined and dropped to the kitchen floor with a whispery thud. Sam turned to look at her, reading the anxious wrinkles in her forehead as she panted up at him. Dean must have been turning too. They looked at one another over Axel's head.

"I've got something for you," Dean said suddenly. He wiped his hands on his jeans, pulled out his phone and crossed the floor as far as where Axel lay. She redistributed herself to lean against his leg while his index finger scrolled the screen. Sam watched this process, nonplussed, still coiled up from the topic before. He suddenly found Dean's phone in his hands.

"It's up to you," Dean said, quieter, hesitant, as Sam registered that the 'something' was an email.

Scanning the words, Sam let out a surprised whuff of laughter. "This is for real? You emailed Cornell for me?"

Dean nodded, brightening so visibly that Sam's heart squeezed, "Yeah. Told you I knew people, right? I mean, she's a dean, but Doctor Hart can't give you a free ride or anything—"

Sam shook his head, holding the phone like a baby chick as he reread the email. "No, no! I wouldn't—I mean. She wants an interview with me?"

Rolling one shoulder, Dean took his phone back with half a smile and turned to retrieve the gravy. "Skype or something. I'll forward it to you," he said, replacing the bowl with another of mashed potatoes, "She checked out your stuff and she said she could help if you want to try again. If you want to try Cornell, anyway."

"Dean—"

"If you don't want to go to Cornell, that's totally fine," Dean blustered on, cutting him off, "I don't know, we'll bribe somebody. I meant what I said. I mean," he dropped his eyes, rubbed his hands on his jeans again, and busied himself with unloading the dishwasher, "I don't know if you even want—"

"—No! I mean, yeah. I mean," Sam interrupted, feeling like he was choking, chest stretched drum tight with the sheer bigness of the thing. His hands flopped in frustration. "I do. I do want your help. I just didn't think you'd—"

The dishes clattered in the rack. "I'm not pretending it's not gonna suck, Sammy. But you survived while I was gone. I can do it. I even got myself a Rumsfeld." He nodded at Axel on the floor, who cranked her head to look at him.

All Sam could do was stare. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stop staring. "This is huge, I don't know," he babbled, the words forced out like the rubble on the edge of a dam break, "Like, a week ago I didn't think I'd— can I think about it?"

Dean shut the dishwasher and straightened. His smile was a slow thing.

"Yeah, sure you can," he said, and saved the potatoes from the microwave.

After wolfing his food, Sam hurried upstairs to change. He rinsed off the morning, feeling too big for the space he filled; hope and anticipation and fear all rolling around inside him until they disagreed with the cold fried chicken. Twice he started to text Castiel, but the news about Cornell couldn't fit in a sentence. It couldn't even fit in a paragraph. What had just transpired in the kitchen would take pages; maybe he'd never get it all out in the right order.

And Castiel would listen, with that sort of all-consuming attention that made Sam feel like the center of every room. And somehow, he'd put the sentence fragments together and he'd get it.

Sam pulled back his hair and glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror. He dodged his own eyes out of habit, paused, and glanced up.

"Yeah, so here's the thing," he mouthed at his reflection, imagining the eyes were blue, earnest, and perpetually tired; "I need to tell you—"

His stomach rolled over and he flinched away, dropping the line. Urgency that was almost panic took the place of his resolve, and Sam shook his head hard. He could do it. He was allowed to.

"Dean?" Sam shouted, buttoning up his shirt as he jogged to the stairs.

"Yeah?" Dean called back. He met Sam at the bottom of the steps, blockading his way. Like a troll guarding a bridge. If that made him a clever goat, Sam supposed he could live with it.

"I'm going over to see Cas," Sam said, "for a while. I'm gonna be back tonight."

The troll moved aside; apparently the fee was some fair amount short of eating Sam alive. "Okay," Dean replied, "You sure?"

Sam came down the last steps. "About what?"

"About coming back," Dean said with a wave, "If it's about Axel, you've got a vet on call here."

The sideways offer gave Sam pause. He leaned in the stairwell, not quite sure if the coast was clear. "You're weirdly calm about this."

"Don't give me that look, Sam. I'm not a complete asshole," Dean replied, defensive, and peeled away into the living room, "we talked a little bit, after the deal with Axel. He's been good at the clinic. Cas, I mean," he went on, pushing Castiel's name out almost in defiance, "Whatever happened before, things seem different now. I'm giving him a shot, just like you asked."

All right, Sam thought, following him; this was an elaborate prank. That, or some alternate universe had just happened in the mirror upstairs. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

"Whatever," Dean grumped.

"No really. I'm thinking shapeshifter. Pretty sure I still have Bobby's knife upstairs," Sam said, "I need to be sure."

"Oh, shapeshifter, huh?" Dean slouched against Bobby's old desk, sour-faced and arms crossed, "Shows how much you know. Maybe I'm possessed."

"Shows what you know," Sam laughed, "Bobby had the water heater blessed like, a decade ago. Haven't heard you screaming in agony in the shower."

Dean cracked a smile, and held up his hands in defeat. "Bobby demon-proofed our showers, nice. You got me."

"Shapeshifter?"

"Yeah. So what does that make you, a werewolf? Listen, I fully support your eight-foot-tall furry lifestyle, but if you and Cas are gonna go chase bunnies or something, spare me the gory details."

They laughed again, easier now than before, and the tension overhanging the house seemed to lift. Dean folded his arms again and dropped his head, with a smile that seemed mostly for himself.

"We had such a batshit childhood," Dean said, almost too low to hear. Sam came closer to catch the words. "I mean, first Dad and all his shit, then shapeshifters and silver knives. Bobby had us convinced there were monsters around every corner. You remember how when he caught me trying to sneak you in to see _Krampus_ , he spent like two hours explaining how it wasn't nearly as scary as the real thing?"

"I remember," Sam chuckled, "I remember he made us watch a 'documentary' that gave us _both_ nightmares."

"And he still made all your baseball games and track meets and schlepped you to play practice and debate championships. He was a lunatic, and he was still a better dad than Dad; what does that say about how fucked up we are?"

It was funny, how Dean talked about 'their' childhood, but only seemed to include the highlights of Sam's.

"Says a ton," Sam agreed, "and now I know you're an imposter." While Dean was laughing, Sam hauled him in for a hug.

"I'm not going anywhere, you know that, right?" Sam said. His throat constricted around the words until they came out whispery.

Dean heard him anyway. He squeezed Sam hard, thumping his shoulder as they let go. "Yeah. I know. Now get out of here. I think me and Axel have a horror movie marathon to regret later."

"Bobby's collection of VHS weirdness?" Sam asked, plopping down on the couch under the window to put on his shoes. Dean sat down next to him, joined shortly thereafter by Axel. At the mention of the old documentary collection, he whistled.

"Whoa, no. I'll stick to nice, predictable, run of the mill jump scares like _Silent Hill_ , thanks. I'd say we burn that stuff, but we'd probably accidentally start the Apocalypse."

"You're probably right," Sam agreed with a snort, "text me if you need a bedtime story. Maybe Cas has a copy of Goodnight Moon."

Dean chortled. "With notes in the margins."

"And, um. Thanks," Sam said, "For the email. I appreciate it. What you're doing."

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "Don't thank me, Sammy. Seriously. Just - go have a good life. You deserve it."

They breathed together a minute, folding up the last of the silence between them to put away. Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder and pushed himself to his feet. "We both do. You're sure? About tonight?"

"See you in the morning," Dean said firmly, " _Late_ morning. Make the bastard make you breakfast."

"Okay," Sam said, laughing around an embarrassed flush, and bolted for his keys before he could get in his own way.


	20. Chapter 20

"For the record," Castiel rumbled against Sam's stomach, an hour later, "you looked very good."

He sprawled, naked, half on top of Sam in a tangle of pillows and rumpled covers. His admirable restraint crumbled a few minutes inside the front door; though to be fair Sam certainly did his share to help it along. The outfit Sam so carefully assembled lay in a heap, buttons miraculously still intact.

"Thanks," Sam laughed, languid and feeling pleased with himself and everything in general, "So did you. Did that mean you were planning to take me out?"

"It sounds horribly traditional when you say it like that," Castiel replied, rolling over onto his back, "I have dinner reservations. I wasn't certain you'd have time, but I hoped."

The mattress bounced as he turned and crawled back up to the head of the bed. Sam met him, curling an arm around his shoulders to tuck him close in spite of the warm room. "Didn't I tell you? Change of plans. Must have slipped my mind. Maybe it happened when someone jumped me in the foyer."

"Clearly an animal, whoever it was," Castiel answered lazily, dragging his fingernails up Sam's thighs until he shivered, "by 'change of plans,' you mean what, exactly?"

"I mean, a vet I know volunteered to watch Axel tonight."

Surprised blue eyes flicked up to Sam's. "If this 'vet you know' also happens to sport an overall plaid sense of fashion and a chip on his shoulder, I'm going to need evidence."

"You don't know the half of it," Sam said, "I'll tell you about it over dinner. But long story short: I'm all yours. If you don't have other plans," he clarified.

In answer, Castiel gave him a wry smile. "My other plans involved several bottles of wine and a film marathon, to distract my moping sister. Who canceled under very vague pretenses, right before you knocked."

"Dorothy came over to the clinic at closing," Sam reported with a smile.

Castiel nodded sagely, "Charlie's explanation was disjointed, but I gathered that," he said, "I'm pleased for them. Pleased also that I could eschew another viewing of Ladyhawke. You make much better company than Rutger Hauer. I'm glad you can stay."

Sam took the little artless admission, cupping it in his thoughts like a kitten. He leaned in, pressing an impulsive kiss to Castiel's forehead.

"I suppose I'm being unfair to Dean," Castiel offered, tentative, after a few minutes of unhurried silence.

The smiles just made themselves, these days. Sam ran his fingertips along the soft ridge of Castiel's jaw. "I've noticed."

Castiel nudged him, exhaling a laugh. "He's made - overtures - since you hit the dog. Nothing too out of character. But we talked. He suggested meeting for lunch next week. We don't have a need for a full night shift, with the primary calving season over."

That pretty much lined up with what Sam heard from Dean. His good mood thinned a little as he considered the last of what Castiel said. "So, does that affect your long-range plans?"

Castiel's eyes flicked up to his. His expression tightened a fraction. "Well," he said slowly, "I do intend to take him up on that, of course, per your suggestion. It was—" he took a few moments to find the appropriate words, "—good. To talk to him. I've missed him, although I didn't realize to what extent until I saw him again. But I've never had any 'long-range plans' regarding Dean Winchester."

Chuckling, Sam patted Castiel's cheek, and course-corrected. "Okay. Good to know. No, I meant," he lowered his eyes now, struggling as the unspoken thought siphoned all the air from the room, "I just want to know. If you're thinking about staying on?"

When he could finally make himself look at Castiel again, Sam met a wall of warm, living blue welcome.

"I like it here," Castiel replied, honesty clearly prompting him to add, "mostly," a moment later, "Charlie extended an offer for me to stay on. She spoke with Dean about it, and he's apparently amenable as well. This is a very different kind of place than I expected," his hand found Sam's cheek, "but, I like what it has to offer."

Sam's heart melted. "You know, you're kind of a hopeless romantic."

"And an irredeemable asshole," Castiel amended, beaming.

"That too," Sam laughed. "I'm glad you're staying. Although, I may not be."

Castiel blinked and sat up. "Really," he said, looking down at Sam, expression a question mark.

The excitement from a few hours ago bubbled over. Sam pushed himself up onto his elbows. "I'll explain everything over dinner. Seriously. But um - short version: I may be going to vet school, after all."

For a split second, Castiel's body beside Sam's went stiff. "But I thought—the applications—"

"I know. And it's not a done deal. But Dean pulled some strings at Cornell—"

" _Dean_ pulled strings. For you to leave."

Sam shrugged. He hadn't completely processed it himself. "I'm going to take this interview and see where it goes. I haven't decided anything yet, but that. But yeah. Dean did it. There's more but - like I said."

Castiel's laugh had a ring of disbelief. Like he'd just put his hand on a unicorn's forehead. "Yes. Long story. Dinner. I'll be interested to hear. I'm glad, Sam. You were right this morning; I had no cause to devalue the important work you do. But I'm still glad. Not—not because of the opportunities it may open for you. Not _only_ that, all right," he amended, tossing his head like an irritated horse, and holding up a hand in surrender, "but you are _capable_. And whatever you do, you'll do well. I see you believe it now."

"Because of you," Sam replied, one corner of his mouth tugging upward, "because you pissed me off enough to try. So I could prove you wrong. Or right. Or whatever."

Castiel's gaze caught him, soft and full of a warmth that made Sam fidget and flush. "I'm pleased to think I had any sway," Castiel said, "but I believe it was your own doing. The annoyance of my presence notwithstanding."

That blush spread, until Sam's cheeks and forehead burned. He cleared his throat, ducking his head to hide it - and his smile - and changed the subject. "Yeah. So, what's next on the agenda?"

Castiel looked down at himself. "Our reservations are for seven. I suppose we should get dressed. But I do have something I want to share with you, first." He rolled away and went to his closet, where he withdrew a large cardboard box from an upper shelf. He put it on the bed next to Sam's hip with no further context, and moved away again to collect his clothes.

Sam sat up. "Am I supposed to open this?" he asked, puzzled.

"It's the box from Anna," Castiel replied, behind the closet door, "Yes, please open it."

Sam pulled the bedclothes over his lap and drew the box in. It was lighter than he'd expected.

The smell of cedar hit him as he opened the lid. On top was a small, sky blue blanket, edged with satin and folded into a perfect square. Dark blue script embroidered the corner of the blanket with all the typical baby stats: name, date and time, weight and length.

"This is yours?" Sam asked, unable to stop himself from kneading the blanket a little between his hands. It was impossibly soft, although the fabric had grown a little stiff with time.

Slow and careful, Castiel sat down on the bed. "It's mine," he confirmed, turning away to finish buttoning his shirt, "there's more."

Sam stirred the contents of the box. A rubber giraffe gave a distressed squeak when Sam squeezed it. A plush bumblebee wedged in a corner, with dangly black shoelace legs. Underneath it, a slim, yellow-paged journal filled with sprawling, loopy cursive. Tucked in its pages were a pair of brittle hospital bracelets, folded around one another; a wadded-up mylar balloon; and a pressed pink rose. At the bottom of the box was a binder, of the sort Sam sharply remembered calling a 'trapper keeper.' On its battered cover, a pair of jewel-toned unicorns - mare and foal - drank from a mirrored pool.

"Lisa Frank?" Sam asked, "I haven't seen one of these since junior high."

"Those are letters," Castiel said quietly, expression distant, "From my mother."

The trapper keeper on Sam's lap seemed to gain a few pounds. "She wrote you?"

"Apparently," Castiel replied, "My brothers controlled everything in the estate - which included the house where my mother lived. None of her belongings were even touched, after she passed away; but when my father died, they disposed of most of it." His expression tightened. "Had it not been for Anna, I would never have known about this. There's more things; some jewelry and documents. She's bringing them next month."

Confused, Sam smoothed his thumbs along the ridges of the trapper keeper. "You have brothers? Why would they keep this stuff from you?"

"I'm our father's oldest son," Castiel said after a long pause, "my mother was his mistress. Michael dislikes admitting I exist."

"Michael's one of your brothers?"

"Half brother, I suppose. He called me personally, when I finally scraped enough money together to have my birth records unsealed. To threaten me."

Sensing there was more story, Sam waited, hands curled around the binder full of letters.

"Our father built an influential law firm, which just so happened to be handling my mother's legal affairs. When Michael called me - to promise more litigation than I could afford if I persisted - I thought it was all my mother's doing. Judging by these letters, she probably had no idea. But I gave up. I didn't have the money to fight someone like that. I guess in a way, it's satisfying to know I said no to Crowley. Against Sparks Law, he would have failed too. And I would have sold my soul to the Devil for nothing."

For a while, Sam could think of nothing to say. He let it rest, setting the letters aside to reach for Castiel instead. He was rigid, unyielding for a few seconds as Sam's arms came around him. For a split second, Sam held his breath, bracing himself for the inevitable pull away.

Then, Castiel sagged into him. Sam felt hands slide up between his shoulder blades, curling into fists.

Sam exhaled slow; almost lost in the quiet room.

"That's a lot to take in," Sam murmured, threading his fingers through Castiel's hair, "I get why you didn't want to talk about it."

"Thank you," Castiel said into his shoulder, "You've been patient beyond reason. I appreciate your kindness."

Sam heard a little bit of himself in the self-depreciating tone, and smiled. The feeling he'd been examining since that morning welled up again, and yeah, maybe now was the right time. Maybe there would never be a right time, but maybe that was part of the point. "Well, I love you," he said, the admission easier than all the explanations and justifications and obfuscations he'd rehearsed all day, "that's part of the deal."

In his arms, Castiel went utterly still, and Sam's heart did a gymnastic flip worthy of an Olympic gold medal. He was wrong. He'd just screwed everything up.

Then, Castiel's arms tightened around him, vibrating until Sam's core trembled in sympathy. His breath came in sobbing gasps, cold against Sam's neck. There was nothing to do but hold him closer and let him be.

In Sam's head as he'd practiced this, he parried a dozen questions. He battered mistrust and suspicion. He expected, at least, to be asked if he really meant it - because isn't that the way things usually go? He had a speech ready to go, to double down on how he felt, sincere if not smooth.

And now here was Castiel believing him on the first round. Here was Castiel, acting like a man saved from the firing squad at dawn.

The potential reason was hard to look at. Hard to look at like a solar eclipse: retina-burning, irresistible and fucking dangerous at the same time. Feeling wanted was heady enough. This? Sam wasn't ready. Not for this. Not after everything else today.

Like always, Castiel wasn't about to let him get away with that. "I didn't want to hope," he said, unsteady, still muffled in Sam's skin like he couldn't even pull back that far, "I've loved you from the night we went stargazing. You listened to me go on for hours. And you must have been freezing. Of course, I noticed how attractive you were from the moment I met you."

For once, Sam didn't flush. He couldn't find the room for embarrassment. Not here.

"I tried to let you know that," Castiel chuckled, finally giving himself a little room in Sam's arms, "but clearly, I continuously failed."

Blinking in confusion, Sam tried to recall a time when Castiel had even hinted at a compliment. Of anything other than his 'relatively useful' job skills. "Seriously?"

Castiel smiled again, which probably counted as a record number in one day. "You run. I noticed. I told you I noticed."

The penny dropped. "And we fought about that," Sam replied, laughing half from panic as his last bulwark against the inevitable crumbled.

With a kiss to the skin, Castiel withdrew at last from the spot he'd claimed against Sam's neck. "And we fought," he agreed, swiping his eyes with the heels of his palms. "You—see good. You forgave me. For things you didn't need to. I didn't deserve it. Sam?" Castiel looked up then, brow furrowing as his eyes settled on Sam.

Maybe all that rehearsing, maybe all that doubling down had been less about Castiel, and more about Sam. More about his own willingness to believe he mattered, specifically, to someone. To Castiel. "You—you love me?" Sam said, embarrassed as his voice ran out of steam a couple syllables through. Now Castiel went a little blurry in front of him, as all the air punched out of Sam's lungs.

Castiel's next move made perfect sense. A little separate part of Sam thought, checkmate, and marveled at the simplicity.

All of Sam's answers to that question had been long. Had been filled with good, solid reasons.

Castiel's answer was to take Sam's face in his hands, gentle as a June night, and kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are.
> 
> You have been the best audience an author could ask for. Thank you so, so much for so much incredible feedback - I'm still processing that the last chapter's been posted and the journey's over. Well, _this_ journey's over, but ever onward, eh? I hope you've enjoyed sharing this world with me, these past few months. I've certainly loved sharing a place I dearly love with all of you.
> 
> Thank you again. You're good people, and I appreciate you!


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